STORIES 
THAB 
END 
WELI 

IfflBY 
OCTAVE 
fTHANET 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


lo 


STORIES  THAT  END  WELL 


STORIES  THAT 
END  WELL 


BY 

OCTAVE  THANET 

AUTHOR  OF 

THE  MAN  OF  THE  HOUR.  THE  LION'S  SHARE. 
BY  INHERITANCE.  ETC. 


NEW    YORK 

GROSSET     &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1911 
THE  BOBBS-MERRILL,  COMPANY 


Ps 

i       O 


7/7 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  'AGE 

I   AN  ADVENTURE  IN  ALTRURIA  i 

II   THROUGH  THE  TERRORS  OF  THE  LAW    ...  28 

III  THE  REAL  THING 49 

IV  THE  OLD  PARTISAN 85 

V   MAX— OR  His  PICTURE 106 

VI   THE  STOUT  Miss  HOPKINS'  BICYCLE      .       .       .140 

VII   THE  SPELLBINDER 177 

VIII   THE  OBJECT  OF  THE  FEDERATION  ....  209 

IX  THE  LITTLE  LONELY  GIRL 239 

X   THE  HERO  OF  COMPANY  G 273 

XI   A  MIRACLE  PLAY 306 


1523740 


The  stories  in  this  book  were  originally  printed  ia 
Harper's  Magazine,  Harper's  Bazaar,  TTie  Cen- 
tury Magazine,  McClure's  Magazine,  Scribner's 
Magazine  and  The  Woman' s  Home  Companion,  and 
to  these  periodicals  acknowledgements  are  due  for 
their  courtesy  in  giving  permission  for  republication* 


STORIES  THAT  END  WELL 


AN  ADVENTURE  IN 
ALTRURIA 

THE  story  came  to  me  through  my  friend,  Mrs. 
Katherine  Biff.  Mrs.  Biff  is  a  widow.  Her 
profession — I  will  not  slight  her  beautiful  art  by  a 
lesser  word — is  that  of  cook.  She  cooks  for  my 
cousin,  Elinor,  and  it  was  during  one  of  Elinor's 
absences  in  Europe  that  Mrs.  Biff  had  her  experience 
in  Altruria,  as  the  supply  for  Miss  Mercedes  Van 
Arden.  It  was  highly  interesting,  I  think. 

She  gave  me  the  episode  herself ;  because,  in  the 
first  place,  I  am  Elinor's  own  cousin  (like  the  rest  of 
the  world,  she  loves  Elinor)'  and  in  the  second  place, 
she  knows  that  I  appreciate  her  conversation.  As- 
suredly I  do  value  Katy's  freehand  sketches  of  life. 
She  is  a  shrewd  observer.  Often  while  she  talks  I 
recall  Stevenson's  description  of  another:  "She  is 
not  to  be  deceived  nor  think  a  mystery  solved  when 
it  is  repeated." 

Katy  is  an  American  by  birth,  but  Celtic  by  race 
i 


STORIES   THAT   END   [WELL 

and  by  nature;  a  widow  to  whom  children  never 
were  granted,  but  who  out  of  her  savings  has  helped 
educate  and  settle  half  a  dozen  of  her  nieces  and 
nephews.  Katy's  married  life  was  brief  and  not 
happy.  The  late  Biff  was  a  handsome  man  who 
never  let  other  people's  comforts  or  rights  interfere 
with  his  own  pleasure.  Nevertheless,  when  he  was 
killed  in  a  saloon  brawl  she  did  not  grudge  him 
many  carriages  for  his  last  journey  (she  who  be- 
lieves in  simple  funerals.  "When  I  give  free  rides, 
I'll  give  'em  while  I'm  alive  and  can  hear  folks  say 
Thank  you!'  "  says  she),  and  she  has  erected  a  neat 
stone  to  his  memory. 

It  was  three  years  after  his  death  that  Mrs.  Biff 
came  to  Elinor,  with  whom  she  has  lived  since. 

Elinor,  one  may  say,  bequeathed  her  to  the  Van 
Ardens.  At  least  she  suggested  them  importunately 
to  Katy.  To  me  she  explained,  "Katy  is  a  maternal 
soul,  and  she  can't  help  taking  care  of  Mercy  Van 
Arden,  who  is  a  stray  angel  in  a  wicked  world  and 
thinks  she  is  a  socialist." 

We  are  conservative,  peaceful,  mid- Westerners  in 
our  town,  and  the  only  socialists  belong  to  a  class 
that  we  do  not  meet  nor  recognize  save  by  their 
2 


AN   ADVENTURE   IN   ALTRURIA 

names  in  the  papers  published  preliminary  to  fiery 
addresses  delivered  at  not  very  reputable  tavern 
halls.  Therefore,  to  have  a  cultivated  socialist,  a 
young  lady  of  wealth,  who  regarded  her  fortune  as  a 
"trust,"  come  to  live  among  us  was  exciting.  Her 
aunt,  from  whom  she  had  recently  inherited  her 
fortune,  was  well  known  to  us,  being  a  large  prop- 
erty owner  in  the  town.  She,  the  late  aunt,  was  not 
in  the  least  a  socialist ;  on  the  contrary,  we  esteemed 
her  a  particularly  shrewd  and  merciless  adept  at  a 
bargain.  She  had  a  will  of  her  own ;  and  consider- 
ing that  Miss  Mercedes  had  borne  the  yoke  for  ten 
years,  it  was  generally  considered  that  she  had 
earned  her  legacy. 

Under  all  these  conditions  of  interest,  I  admit  I 
was  glad  enough  to  see  Katy  Biff's  decent  black  hat 
approaching  the  side  door  the  day  after  her  entrance 
into  the  Van  Arden  family  circle. 

"Well,  Miss  Patsy,"  she  began,  "I  guess  you  know 
she's  queer;  I  thought  I  knew  most  of  the  brands 
of  wine  and  women,  as  old  Judge  Howells  used  to 
say,  but  this  one  beats  me!  I  came  'round  to  the 
yard — she's  hired  the  Bateman  place,  furnished,  you 
3 


STORIES   THAT    END   .WELL 

know,  while  the  Batemans  are  towering  in  Canada, 
she  and  her  sister,  who's  a  doctor  lady.  I  hope  the 
doctor'll  be  a  kinder  balance  wheel,  but  she's  got  a 
chore ! 

"As  I  was  saying,  I  came  'round  the  yard,  aiming 
for  the  kitchen  door,  when  I  heard  somebody  calling, 
and  there  she  was  opening  the  front  door  to  Nellie 
Small.  Don't  you  remember  Nellie  Small?  She 
was  the  Batemans'  waitress  for  three  months — poor 
young  things — and  smashed  a  lot  of  their  nice  wed- 
ding presents,  the  other  girl  told  me.  She's  the  kind 
that  always  looks  so  fine  and  never  dusts  the  hind 
legs  of  the  table.  I  wasn't  none  too  pleased  at  the 
sight  of  her,  but  Miss  Van  Arden,  she  was  awful 
polite ;  took  us  both  right  into  the  parlor  and  made 
us  set  down.  I  got  worried  thinking  she'd  mistook, 
and  I  hesitate  a  minute  and  then  I  says : 

"  'Miss  Van  Arden,  I  was  going  'round  to  the 
kitchen  door;  I've  come  to  see  about  the  cook's 
place.' 

"  'I  know,'  says  she  right  quick,  with  a  little  lift 
of  her  pretty  brown  head.     1  know,'  says  she, 
'you're  Mrs.  Biff,  and  you,'  says  she,  smiling  so 
pretty  on  that  Nellie  trash,  'you're  Miss  Small.' 
4 


AN   ADVENTURE   IN   ALTRURIA 

"  'I  am,'  says  Nellie,  tossing  her  head. 

"So  then  she  begins;  and  from  that  beginning, 
and  calling  us  in  that  way,  you  can  imagine  how  she 
went  on.  She  explained  that  while  she  was  a  poor 
girl  at  her  aunty's  she  read  a  lovely  book  about  an 
imaginary  country  called  Altruria ;  and  that  the  gen- 
tleman who  wrote  it  didn't  think  we  could  do  that 
way  in  this  country;  she  supposed  we  couldn't,  but 
she  was  going  to  try,  and  she  hoped  we  would  like 
her  and  help  her.  She  didn't  know  much  about 
housekeeping;  she  had  helped  her  aunty,  but  it  was 
writing  letters  and  doing  errands  and  dusting  brac- 
a-brac  (and  she  laughed)  ;  the  only  things  she  knew 
how  to  do  right  well  was  to  dust  and  to  polish 
jewelry  and  make  tea.  But  she  hoped  to  learn ;  and 
she  had  got  all  the  machinery  she  could  think  of; 
there  was  an  electric  washer  and  an  ironing  machine, 
and  a  dishwashing  machine,  and  bread  and  cake  ma- 
chines, and  we  ought  not  to  need  to  work  more  than 
eight  hours  a  day.  She  didn't  believe  really  in  more 
than  six  hours  a  day,  but  at  first  maybe  we  wouldn't 
mind  eight. 

"I  could  see  that  Nellie  drinking  it  all  in,  getting 
more  topping  every  minute. 
5 


STORIES   THAT    END    WELL 

"  'Miss  Van  Arden,'  says  she,  'how  about  even- 
ings ?  I'm  used  to  having  all  my  evenings.' 

"  'I  ain't,  madam,'  says  I,  'not  if  there's  dinner 
company.  And  I  know  well  enough  Nellie  ain't, 
neither.' 

"  'I — I  could  have  dinner  in  the  middle  of  the 
day,'  says  Miss  Van  Arden  real  pitiful,  'if  it  weren't 
that  my  sister  comes  in  tired  at  night  and  likes  a  hot 
meal;  but  I've  got  a  fireless  stove,  and  it  might  be 
cooked  and  left  in  the  fireless  stove  and  we  could 
wait  on  ourselves.' 

"  'I  guess  that'll  be  Satisfactory,'  says  Nellie,  dip- 
ping her  head  and  smiling  a  haughty  smile,  while  I 
was  quivering  to  git  a  word  in  Miss  Van  Arden's 
ear.  But,  of  course,  there  was  no  chance.  And 
Miss  Van  Arden,  she  went  on  to  say  that  she  didn't 
eat  meat  herself,  but  her  sister  liked  to  have  it,  so — 

"  'I  have  to  have  meat  myself/  hops  in  that 
Nellie. 

"  'Oh,  of  course,'  Miss  Van  Arden  said ;  she 
didn't  dictate  to  others,  but  personally  she  didn't  eat 
meat;  but  she  didn't  need  any  special  vegetable 
dishes  made  for  her. 

"  'You  shall  have  'em  if  you  want  'em,  ma'am,' 
6 


AN    ADVENTURE   IN   ALTRURIA 

says  I ;  then,  'and  I  guess  the  cook  will  have  some- 
thing to  say  about  the  kitchen  table;  I  ain't  never 
much  on  meat  myself.'  I  guess  that  was  one  for 
miss! 

"  'Oh,  thank  you,'  says  Miss  Van  Arden  real 
grateful — she's  jest  as  sweet's  they  make  'em,  Miss 
Patsy.  Then  she  looked  very  timidly  at  Nellie  and 
the  color  came  into  her  face. 

"  'I  should  like  to  have  you  take  your  meals  with 
me  if — if  I  were  alone/  she  stammers,  'but  my  sis- 
ter— we  have  so  little  time  together — we'll  try  not 
to  make  much  waiting — '  She  got  into  a  kind  of 
mess  of  stammers,  when  I  cut  in  and  told  her  that 
we  much  preferred  to  eat  in  our  own  pantry,  which 
was  big  enough  for  a  dining-room. 

"Well,  you  can  guess,  Miss  Patsy,  that  about  this 
time  I  was  wishing  myself  well  out  of  it  all,  for  I've 
lived  with  notional  folks  before,  and  folks  who 
wanted  to  make  friends  of  their  help,  and  what  I 
like  with  strangers  is  to  have  them  keep  their  side 
of  the  fence  and  I'll  keep  mine ;  I  ain't  seeking  any 
patronage  from  nobody,  and  I  got  too  much  self- 
respect  not  to  be  respectful.  But  I'd  promised  Mrs. 
Caines;  so  I  simply  told  what  wages  I  wanted,  and 
7 


STORIES   THAT   END   WELL 

I  made  'em  reasonable,  too.  But  Nellie — my!  she 
named  a  sum  two  dollars  a  week  more'n  she  ever'd 
got  and  four  dollars  more'n  she  was  worth ;  and  for 
hatred  of  meddling  I  sat  still  and  let  that  poor  little 
sweet  Babe  in  the  Woods  agree  to  it.  But  I  miss  my 
guess  if  I  have  to  put  up  with  Nellie  long! 

"So  we  was  engaged.  Not  a  word  about  any 
day's  work  in  the  week  or  when  she  has  sweeping 
done  (she  said  she'd  do  the  dusting  herself — and 
she's  wise,  with  Nellie  'round)  or  when  she  had 
bakings  or  anything;  only  that  she'd  have  a  laun- 
dress come  in  three  days  (eight  hours  a  day)  and 
do  all  our  washing.  We  got  a  room  apiece,  but  we 
haven't  got  a  bathroom  like  at  Mrs,  Caines',  so  she 
told  us  we  could  have  the  guest  bathroom.  My! 
but  I  wish  you'd  heard  her;  and  she's  just  the  pret- 
tiest thing  in  the  world  and  wears  the  prettiest 
clothes.  Her  clothes  is  all  that  gives  me  hope  of 
her!  She  said  she  embroidered  her  shirt-waist  her- 
self; and  I  guess  if  she  can  sit  up  and  take  that 
amount  of  notice,  she's  got  the  makings  of  sense  in 
her! 

"She  said  could  I  come  that  day.     I  said,  'Yes, 


8 


AN    ADVENTURE   IN    ALTRURIA 

"  'You  needn't  call  me  that/  says  she ;  'I  don't 
care  for  those  little  distinctions.' 

"  'If  you  please,  ma'am,'  I  says,  kind  but  firm, 
'they're  fitting  and  proper  and  I  prefer  it,  ma'am.' 

"Well,  Miss  Patsy,  I  got  my  first  dinner  yester- 
day. I  even  made  the  salad,  which  belongs  to  the 
waitress,  but  I  couldn't  risk  Nellie  Small's  ideas  of 
French  dressing  yet!  Miss  Patsy,  she  set  her  own 
plate  at  table. 

"  'Now,'  says  I,  'let's  talk  plain  United  States  a 
minute.  Whether  that  poor,  innercent,  looney  lady 
craves  our  company  or  not,  she  ain't  going  to  git  it. 
When  I'm  cooking  a  dinner  I  ain't  dressed  up  for 
company.  I  want  my  meals  in  peace,  and  you 
ought  to  want  yours;  they  got  their  own  gossip, 
same's  us ;  and  whatever  Miss  Van  Arden  might  be 
willing  to  do,  the  doctor'll  want  to  have  her  sister 
and  her  friends  to  herself  without  you  and  me  but- 
ting in;  just  as  I  want  my  meals  to  myself  without 
them!' 

"Nellie  told  me  she  was  just  as  good  as  them; 

and  I  said  I  wasn't  the  one  that  had  to  decide  that ; 

goodness  was  something  only  the  Lord  Almighty 

got  the  scales  for  weighing  exact,  but  I'd  bet  money, 

9 


STORIES   THAT    END   WELL 

if  it  came  to  sheer,  imbecile  cleanness  of  heart  and 
willingness  to  sacrifice  herself  for  any  old  thing, 
that  Miss  Van  Arden  could  give  us  both  a  long  start 
and  then  beat  us!  But  I  guessed  we'd  leave  that 
part  out.  Sich  things  was  just  business.  We  got 
to  take  the  world's  we  found  it.  So  she  said  she 
wouldn't  take  the  plate  off.  I  said  I  wasn't  proud ; 
wherefore  I  took  it  off  myself,  and  she  didn't  put 
no  more  on,  and  the  sisters  had  their  meal  in  peace. 
She  come  when  the  buzzer  called  her  and  waited 
fairly  well — she's  bright  enough  when  she  wants 
to  be. 

"Doctor?  Oh,  she's  a  horse  of  another  color. 
She's  ten  years  older'n  her  sister  and  ain't  seen 
much  of  her  since  their  parents  died  and  Miss 
Mercy  went  to  live  with  her  aunty,  and  she  seems 
to  set  a  good  deal  by  her  and  be  puzzled  by  her,  too. 
She's  got  a  good  appetite  and  knows  good  food.  I 
can  git  along  with  her  all  right.  But  I  mistrust  that 
Nellie,  being  so  half  baked,  we'll  get  our  trouble 
soon !  We've  a  colored  man  looks  out  for  the  fur- 
nace and  beats  the  rugs  and  tends  to  the  yard  and 
does  chores;  he  seems  a  decent  sort  of  man.  I  got 
a  rise  out  of  Nellie  'bout  him,  though.  She  was 
10 


AN   ADVENTURE   IN   ALTRURIA 

just  boiling  and  sissing  when  I  remarked,  'You 
think  everybody's  as  good  as  everybody  else,  so  I 
expect  you  won't  mind  having  Amos  set  down  with 
us.'  Why,  she  flew  into  fifty  pieces.  'Eat  with  a 
nigger!'  she  screamed. 

"Of  course,  I  was  only  fooling,  and  he  was  glad 
enough  to  get  a  good  meal  in  the  laundry;  he's  a 
real  nice,  sensible  man.  But  my  lady  was  off,  not 
so  much  as  putting  the  dishes  in  the  washing  ma- 
chine. Marched  off  with  her  young  man,  who's  on 
strike;  so  he's  underfoot  most  of  the  time.  That 
kind  makes  me  tired!" 

Naturally,  after  this  conversation  with  Katy  I 
agreed  with  my  sister  that  it  would  be  interesting  to 
call;  and  we  planned  an  early  day.  It  was,  how- 
ever, even  earlier  than  our  plans. 

My  chamber  (at  my  sister's  house,  where  I  was 
visiting)  is  on  the  side  near  the  Bateman  house; 
and  it  happened  to  be  I  who  first  discovered  the 
smoke  volleying  out  of  the  Bateman  furnace  chim- 
ney, followed  by  a  roaring  spout  of  flame.  I  knew 
Katy  had  gone  to  our  little  up-town  grocery,  for  I 
had  seen  her  on  the  way ;  and  I  made  all  haste  across 
IT 


STORIES   THAT    END   .WELL 

the  lawn,  with  all  our  ice-cream  salt  The  fire  really 
was  easily  dealt  with.  By  the  time  the  firemen  ar- 
rived (summoned  by  Nellie),  all  was  over  save  the 
shouting,  as  they  say  in  the  political  reports.  Amos 
and  Nellie  were  still  calling  "Fire!"  Katy  arrived 
a  good  second  to  the  hose  cart,  breathless  with  run- 
ning, but  all  her  wits  in  good  order. 

"Long's  you've  put  out  the  fire,  Miss  Patsey,  I'll 
put  out  the  fire  department,"  said  she;  "they're  the 
only  danger.  Miss  Mercy,  you  open  all  the  win- 
dows; let's  git  rid  of  the  smoke.  Nellie,  what  you 
carrying  your  clothes  out  for  ?" 

Mercedes  quite  won  our  hearts  by  her  docility 
and  the  quiet  way  she  obeyed.  Perhaps  it  was  in 
recognition  that  Katy  became  her  tower  of  refuge 
when  the  cause  of  the  fire  appeared.  It  was  no  less 
than  Amos.  He  had  been  hired  without  any  heart- 
less prying  into  recommendations,  on  the  ideal  Al- 
trurian  ground  of  Need.  He  was  asked,  to  be  sure, 
could  he  run  a  furnace,  and  with  the  optimism  of 
the  African  replied  that  he  reckoned  he  could.  He 
did  not  add  that  he  had  never  tried  to  run  one  be- 
fore. Doubtless  it  was  natural  that  he  should  not 
discover  the  meaning  of  the  cunning  chains  going 
12 


AN   ADVENTURE   IN   ALTRURIA 

through  the  floors;  and  when  dampers  increase  the 
draft  if  shut  and  diminish  it  if  open,  who  can  won- 
der that  Amos  should  artlessly  shut  everything  in 
sight — including  the  registers?  Natural  laws  did 
the  rest. 

Amos  was  very  patient,  almost  tearful.     He  said 
he  didn't  know  whatever  Sally  would  do  when  he 
come  home  outen  a  job ;  Sally  be'n  so  satisfied  befo' 
but  he  didn't  cast  no  blame  on  nobody.     Sally,  it 
came  out  later,  was  ill. 

"Is  it  anything  infectious?"  demanded  Mercedes' 
sister,  the  doctor,  who  by  this  time  was  on  the 
scene. 

"I  dunno,  ma'am;  I  reckon  'tis"  deprecated 
Amos.  "Hit's  a  right  new  baby,  come  a  week  ago, 
an'  she  ain't  got  up  yit." 

Then  it  was  while  Nellie  glibly  proposed  a  new 
man,  a  man  of  assured  efficiency,  two  years  janitor 
of  a  "flat,"  and  the  brother  of  a  friend;  and  Mer- 
cedes Van  Arden  had  only  bewildered  compassion 
to  justify  her  desire  to  forgive  the  culprit ;  and  Doc- 
tor Van  Arden  frowned,  that  Katy  spoke  the  word 
of  power. 

"Doctor,"  said  she,  "Amos  mayn't  know  much 
13 


.       STORIES   THAT   END   .WELL 

.about  the  furnace,  but  he's  a  decent,  honest  man  that 
found  my  ten  cents  out  on  the  steps  and  gave  it  to 
me;  and  I  know  how  to  run  furnaces,  and  I'll  learn 
him.  What's  more,  I  can  burn  up  all  the  coal,  and 
not  smoke  up  the  house  or  the  neighborhood.  And 
one  good  thing — if  Amos  can't  run  a  furnace,  he 
knows  it  now,  anyhow;  there's  many  a  janitor  man's 
been  smoking  up  flats  for  years  ain't  found  out  that 
yet.  Doctor,  I'll  answer  for  Amos  if  you  ladies  will 
keep  him." 

Amos  was  kept.  I  fancied  that  Mercedes  was  al- 
most as  grateful  as  he. 

After  this  for  a  time  matters  went  on  in  a  suf- 
ficiently prosaic  and  satisfactory  manner.  We  put 
both  of  the  sisters  up  in  the  Monday  Club  and  the 
doctor  consented  to  talk  to  the  club  on  the  "Smoke 
Nuisance"  at  our  meeting  in  which  we  discussed 
that  bane  of  the  housekeeper,  under  the  startling 
caption,  "The  City  of  Dreadful  Night."  We  asked 
Mercedes  to  embody  her  own  Social  Creed  in  a  fif- 
teen-minute paper;  but  she  pleaded  almost  with 
tears  that  she  was  simply  a  student  who  had  not 
studied  enough  to  know,  only  to  feel;  and  she 
blushed  deeply.  So  she  was  reprieved.  Meanwhile 
14 


AN   ADVENTURE   IN   ALTRURIA 

the  doctor  (who  had  been  quietly  working  up  a 
practise  in  our  town  for  six  years)  began  to  be  seen 
at  the  bedsides  of  divers  prominent  ladies. 

Several  of  us  asked  the  sisters  to  luncheon,  to 
dinner  and  to  bridge  parties.  In  return,  the  sisters 
entertained  the  club  at  tea,  a  function  whereat  Katy 
covered  herself  with  glory,  and  Nellie  graciously 
consented  to  pass  plates  and  listen  and  break  two 
heavy  Colonial  goblets — Nellie  was  slim  and  light 
on  her  feet,  but  she  surely  had  a  heavy  hand. 

Katy  came  over  to  borrow  our  monkey  wrench 
the  next  morning  because  Nellie  and  the  friend 
whom  she  had  recommended  to  assist  in  waiting, 
had  contrived  to  loosen  a  water  faucet.  She  was 
brimming  with  criticisms  of  this  last  helper,  as  well 
as  of  Nellie. 

"Did  she  stay  to  help  wash  dishes?"  Thus  she 
let  her  suppressed  disgust  explode.  "Well,  I  should 
say!  And  got  extry  pay  for  staying,  too,  and  had 
her  young  man  in  for  supper  afterward;  and  the 
things  she  gave  him  to  carry  away,  the  fancy  can- 
dies with  bow-knots  on  them,  and  the  cakes  with 
roses,  and  the  marionglasyes!  And  when  I  spoke  up 
to  her  she  claimed  Miss  Mercy  told  her  to — and 
'5 


STORIES   THAT    END    WELL 

there's  no  saying,  maybe  she  did !  Her  young  man's 
on  strike ;  he's  at  the  locomotive  works ;  she  claims 
he  gits  four-fifty  a  day  and  he's  striking  for  more,  I 
expect;  he's  been  on  strike  six  weeks  now,  and  he 
comes  here  to  meals  four  times  a  week  and  eats — 
well,  Miss  Mercy  said,  'Make  him  welcome,'  so  I 
do ;  but  I  own  to  you,  Miss  Patsy,  something  I  feel 
real  bad  about.  That  young  Mr.  Gordon,  it's  his 
pa  is  president  of  the  works;  he's  a  real  nice  young 
man  jest  out  of  Harvard  College,  and  he  met  Miss 
Mercy  in  Chicago  and  went  'round  a  lot  with  her, 
and  I  made  up  my  mind  and  Nellie  made  up  hers — 
and  she  ain't  a  fool,  Nellie,  for  all  she's  so  flighty 
— that  they  were  going  to  make  a  match  of  it;  but 
Nellie  got  Miss  Mercy  to  promise  she'd  go  speak  to 
old  Mr.  Gordon  about  the  strike ;  Miss  Mercy's  got 
a  awful  lot  of  stock  herself,  in  the  works;  and  I 
dunno  the  rights  of  it,  but  I'm  sure  those  young 
things  had  words!  It's  a  bitter  black  shame,  too,  it 
is,  dragging  that  poor  child  in!  Doctor  don't  like 
it  any  more  than  I  do.  And  poor  little  Miss  Mercy, 
she's  scared  to  death ;  but  that  won't  stop  her ;  the 
more  it  hurts,  the  more  she  is  sure  she  had  ought  to 
do  it." 

16 


AN    ADVENTURE   IN   ALTRURIA 

I  didn't  think  little  Miss  Van  Arden  could  move 
old  Mr.  Gordon's  convictions;  but  it  was  true  that 
she  was  the  largest  individual  stockholder  in  the 
works,  and  hence  she  might  make  trouble  with  the 
wavering  minds,  certainly  trouble  enough  to  irritate 
the  president,  who  was  a  sterling,  but  not  always  a 
patient  man. 

"They  want  to  run  the  works  as  a  closed  shop, 
don't  they?"  I  asked. 

"Jest  that.  Miss  Mercy,  if  she  is  a  reforming 
lady,  she  ain't  arrergant  like  most  sich;  and  she 
asked  me  what  I  thought  about  the  strike.  She  got 
my  opinion  of  it  cold.  There's  strikes  and  strikes,' 
says  I.  'Strikes  for  higher  wages  may  be  right  or 
wrong,  as  depends,  but  a  strike  for  the  right  to  keep 
every  other  man  but  your  gang  out  of  a  job  is  bound 
to  be  wrong.  I  ain't  no  sympathy  with  any  kind 
of  closed  shops,  whether  the  bosses  close  'em  to 
union  men,  or  the  union  men  close  'em  to  everybody 
'cept  themselves.'  " 

The  next  day  I  saw  the  little  Socialist's  white, 

miserable  face  go  by  my  window  with  Katy's  solid 

cheer  at  her  elbow.     She  had  agreed  to  see  Mr. 

Gordon  first  before  she  appeared  at  the  board  meet- 

17 


STORIES   THAT   END   WELL 

ting,  and  (as  Katy  put  it)  "poured  coal  oil  on  the 
fire  to  put  it  out."  Of  course,  there  was  a  useless 
journey.  Mr.  Gordon  felt  moved  to  utter  certain 
pet  opinions  of  his  own  regarding  the  ease  of  mak- 
ing mischief  when  ignorant  people  interfered  in 
business.  If  it  was  any  comfort  to  her  to  know  that 
she  was  giving  him  an  infernal  lot  of  trouble  she 
could  take  it  all  right ;  but  he  had  to  do  right  accord- 
ing to  his  own  conscience,  and  not  hers,  and  he 
wished  her  good-morning.  Very  limp  and  dejected 
she  departed. 

"  The  worst  of  it  is,'  she  says  to  me,  Katy  re- 
lated, 'the  worst  of  all  is,  while  I  believe  he  ought 
to  do  what  the  men  want  rather  than  keep  up  the 
strike,  I  don't  really  feel  sure  they  ought  to  want 
him  to  do  it.  It's  so  hard  on  the  outside  men.'  Oh, 
she's  got  some  sense  straying  about  her,  though  it's 
mainly  lost  to  view.  But  I  do  wish  she  could  make 
it  up  with  her  beau.  He  ain't  been  'round  for  a 
week;  and  when  folks  ain't  got  a  meat  diet  they 
can't  stand  the  strain  of  being  crossed  in  love !" 

Even  Katy's  Celtic  loyalty  was  staggered  the  next 
week.  She  came  over  on  a  perfectly  needless  bor- 
rowing errand  to  tell  me. 

18 


AN   ADVENTURE   IN   ALTRURIA 

"Did  you  see  it,  ma'am?  Being  my  afternoon 
out,  I  wasn't  there.  Did  you  see  that  woman  tumble 
down  on  our  grass  and  herself  run  out  with  Amos 
and  Mrs.  Kane?"  (Mrs.  Kane  was  the  laundress, 
who  acted  also  as  scrubwoman  once  a  week,  Nellie's 
health  not  being  equal  tc  the  weekly  cleaning  re- 
quired in  a  tidy  household.)'  "Did  you  see  it?  I 
began  to  sniff  the  minute  I  struck  the  hall.  My 
word !  I  knowed  it.  Then  I  begun  to  hear  the  groans 
— C0-o-ah!  0-o-ah!'  mumbling,  grumbling  kind  of 
groans — I  didn't  need  anything  more  to  get  next 
to  that  situation,  no,  ma'am.  Mrs.  Kane  come  tum- 
bling down-stairs.  You  know  her,  Miss  Patsy,  Tim 
Kane's  widow,  a  fair-to-middling  laundress  and 
next  door  to  a  fool  about  everything  else.  Jest  the 
kind  that  gits  a  good  husband  like  Timothy  and  then 
fools  away  the  money  he  leaves  her  and  has  to  come 
on  the  wash  tub.  Down-stairs  she  comes — wild! 
The  poor  woman,  they'd  seen  her  fall  outside,  and 
Miss  Mercy  and  she'd  taken  her  in  on  a  mattress 
with  Amos  to  help;  Amos  wanted  to  call  the  am- 
berlance,  but  Miss  Mercy  said  no,  they'd  take  her 
to  the  police;  so  they  three  took  the  poor  creature 
into  the  house.  And  'Oh,  hear  her  groan!'  I  said, 
19 


STORIES   THAT    END   .WELL 

yes,  she  was  easy  to  hear.  I  guess  Amos  felt  all 
right ;  but  you  know  niggers  are  biddable,  and  what- 
ever they  think,  the  creatures  do  like  they're  told. 

"Well,  I  walked  up-stairs.  She  was  there  in  the 
guest  chamber  on  one  of  the  twin  beds  with  the 
flowery  card,  'Sleep  gently  in  this  quiet  room,'  etcet- 
ery,  over  the  towsledest  head  and  sech  skirts! 
She'd  been  having  a  time  for  sure.  Herself  had  put 
a  wet  ice  bandage  on  the  woman's  head  and  a  hot- 
water  bag  to  her  feet,  and  she  was  a-laying  her 
hands,  her  own  pretty,  soft,  little,  white,  trembling 
hands,  to  her  awful  shoes,  but  says  7: 

"  'You  stop!    Don't  you  tech  her !' 

"  'I  must,'  says  she ;  'they're  soaked.' 

"  'Don't  you  see  what's  the  matter  of  her?'  say  I. 
'She's  dead  drunk!' 

"I  reckoned  she'd  deny  it.  Not  a  bit.  'I  suppose 
so/  says  she;  'that's  why  I  wouldn't  let  them  call 
the  amberlance.' 

"  'And  do  you  mean  to  keep  her  here?'  says  I. 
'That  drunken  rubbish?' 

"Well,  she  does;  she  was  awful  sorry  for  the 
trouble  to  us,  but  the  woman  fell  down  at  her  door, 
and  she  was  in  dire  misery,  and  Miss  Mercy  she  felt 
20 


AN    ADVENTURE   IN    ALTRURIA 

she  had  got  to  take  her  in.  My  word,  Miss  Patsy, 
I  had  to  shet  my  teeth  a  minute  to  keep  back  my 
feelings,  but  every  word  I  said  was:  'I  guess  you 
better  move  that  other  bed  out  and  then  you  can 
burn  this  one!'  Heavens,  I  ain't  going  to  describe 
the  next  hour  till  the  doctor  come.  Now,  she's  lay- 
ing comfortable  in  the  doctor's  gown,  in  that  nice 
clean  bed,  and  I've  made  her  chicken  broth  and 
mustard  plasters  and  everything  else  for  her  com- 
fort. 

"When  the  doctor  come,  she  said,  'This  goes  the 
limit,'  and  then  she  bit  off  the  rest  and  swallered  it 
and  said,  'We'll  have  to  scrub  her.'  And  we  did — 
with  washing  powder  and  scouring  soap.  I  hope  it 
hurt,  but  I'm  'fraid  it  didn't." 

"How  does  Nellie  take  it?" 

The  sorely  tried  Mrs.  Biff  grinned.  "  'Tis  that 
keeps  me  from  quite  sinking;  she  is  most  dretful 
horrified  and  vowing  she's  going  to  leave." 

However,  Nellie  did  not  go ;  it  was  the  castaway 
whom  they  had  succored  who  awoke  in  her  right 
mind  before  any  one  was  stirring  the  next  morn- 
ing, clothed  herself,  for  lack  of  her  own  rags  (which 
were  airing  in  the  back  yard),  in  a  decent  brown 
21 


STORIES   THAT   END   .WELL 

dress,  cloak  and  hat  of  the  doctor's  from  the  guest- 
room closet,  put  on  the  doctor's  large,  serviceable 
boots,  and  gathering  the  loose  silver  and  three  one- 
dollar  banknotes  left  in  Katy's  cash  box,  otherwise 
her  "cup"  from  the  pantry  shelf,  departed  into  the 
unknown  nether  world  from  whence  she  came. 

"And  a  mercy  she  didn't  murder  us  in  our  beds !" 
opined  Nellie;  "maybe  she  will  yet!" 

Nellie's  prophecy  appeared  less  grotesque  the  fol- 
lowing week  when  her  young  man,  Phil,  by  Chris- 
tian name — I  did  not  come  to  know  his  surname — 
discovered  at  the  police  station  or  the  engine  house 
(he  frequenting  both  places  in  his  wealth  of  leisure) 
that  the  castaway  had  escaped  from  a  quarantined 
house  full  of  smallpox,  in  a  little  hamlet  near  by. 
Here  was  a  situation !  Nellie  vowed  she  wouldn't 
sleep  a  wink  were  she  Mrs.  Kane  or  Amos,  particu- 
larly Amos,  because  colored  folk  took  naturally  to 
smallpox* 

Amos  only  grinned;  but  Mrs.  Kane  was  palpably 
nervous  and  began  inquiring  into  symptoms  of  what 
Nellie  termed  "the  dread  disease." 

Presently  she  was  feeling  them  faithfully.  And 
Katy  sHrugged  the  shoulder  of  scorn.  But  scorn 
22 


AN    ADVENTURE   IN   ALTRURIA 

turned  into  consternation  by  Monday,  for  an  agi- 
tated neighbor  came  to  the  front  door  to  announce 
that  Mrs.  Kane  was  sick  in  bed  with  an  awful  fever 
and  broke  out  terrible,  and  would  the  doctor  please 
step  over  there. 

"And  all  the  clothes  in  the  suds!"  sighed  Katy. 
"But  that's  nothing.  Poor  Miss  Mercy!  she's  al- 
most out  of  her  mind ;  she  says  that  she's  to  blame ; 
she's  brought  smallpox  on  that  innocent  woman, 
and  most  like  she'll  die;  and  if  she  hadn't  been  so 
wicked  and  headstrong  and  had  listened  to  her 
friend  (she  didn't  name  nobody,  but  I  know  she 
means  young  Gordon)  and  her  sister,  it  wouldn't 
have  happened;  she  hadn't  even  helped  the  woman 
who  fetched  the  smallpox;  she'd  only  tempted  her 
to  crime!  And  what  should  she  say  to  poor  Mrs. 
Bateman?  Nobody  wanted  to  rent  her  home  to  be 
a  pest-house.  And  she'd  set  the  house  afire  by  hir- 
ing an  ignorant  man —  Oh,  she  was  a  wicked  girl ! 
Her  aunty  often  told  her  she  was  a  fool,  and  oh, 
why  hadn't  she  believed  her  and  not  tried  to  do 
things  too  big  for  her  senseless  head?  And  she's 
been  fairly  crying  her  eyes  out.  The  poor,  sweet, 
humble-minded  little  thing !" 
23 


STORIES   THAT   END    WELL 

Poor  little  Mercy!  But  I  was  to  pity  her  much 
more  during  the  succeeding  ten  minutes.  Amos 
came  out  to  the  barberry  hedge  to  tell  our  cook  that 
Miss  Mercy  was  in  bed  and  he  'lowed  she'd  small- 
pox He  was  off  in  pursuit  of  the  doctor,  who  was 
at  Mrs.  Kane's  who'd  got  a  fearful  bad  case.  Hardly 
was  Amos  out  of  sight  than  Nellie,  in  her  cheap 
imitation  of  the  latest  fashion  of  big  hat,  dashed 
out  of  the  gate  after  the  street  car.  So  do  rats  de- 
sert the  sinking  ship,  I  thought.  Straightway  I  went 
over  to  the  house.  Katy  herself  answered  the  bell. 
She  was  in  two  minds  about  ejecting  me  by  force, 
but  she  softened  when  I  recalled  to  her  how  recently 
I  had  been  vaccinated. 

"Well,  Miss  Patsy,  that's  so,"  she  admitted,  "and 
besides,  I  ain't  absolutely  sure  'tis  smallpox.  But 
she'd  a  kinder  chill  and  I  wouldn't  let  her  come 
down-stairs.  Say,  you  don't  happen  to  have  seen 
Nellie  anywhere?" 

When  I  told  her,  she  drew  a  long  sigh.  We  were 
standing  at  the  side  door,  where  a  great  Norway  fir 
shakes  its  blue-green  shadows. 

"  'Tis  like  her,"  said  Katy  bitterly,  "and  only  yes- 
terday Miss  Mercy  gave  her  sech  a  pretty  waist.  And 
24 


AN    ADVENTURE   IN    ALTRURIA 

now  she's  run  off  and  Miss  Mercy's  got  the  small- 
pox— mebbe.  Well,  I  dtmno  as  it's  as  dangerous  as 
Alterruria,  and  mebbe  one  will  cure  the  other — 
Oh,  say!  Look,  Miss  Patsy!" 

I  looked.  They  came  in  a  kind  of  rush  with  the 
flutter  of  brilliant  autumn  leaves,  swirling  around 
the  house  corner — Nellie  and  young  Ralph  Gordon. 
Nellie's  cheeks  were  blazing,  but  young  Gordon 
looked  white  and  stern. 

"Why,  Nellie  Small,  ain't  you  run  away?"  cried 
Katy. 

Before  Nellie  could  retort,  the  young  gentleman 
took  the  limelight. 

"Where  is  Miss  Mercy?"  he  demanded  in  that 
tone  of  voice  which  the  novelists  call  "tense;"  "I 
must  say  a  few  words  to  her.  You  can  let  me  say 
them  through  the  door,  if  you  wish,  Mrs.  Biff." 

Katy  hardly  considered;  her  eyes  shone  into  his 
masterful  face.  She  turned  on  her  heel  and  he  fol- 
lowed her.  Instantly  Nellie's  excitement  found 
burning  words :  "I  heard  her,  Miss  McFarlin !  She 
thinks  I  ran  away!  Me!  Well,  I  know  she  has  a 
mean  opinion  of  me,  but  I  didn't  expect  she'd  be  that 
unjust.  I'm  jest  as  fond  of  Miss  Mercy  as  she  is; 
25 


STORIES   THAT    END   WELL 

I  only  sprinted  down  the  street  to  ketch  her  young 
man,  because  I  know  they  had  a  misunderstanding, 
and  I  was  sure,  no  matter  how  mad  he  was,  the 
minute  I  told  him,  he'd  come  a-running,  and 
whether  they  let  her  see  him  or  not,  it  would  cheer 
her  up  a  whole  lot  to  know  he  tried.  And  as  for 
Mrs.  Biff's  pitying  Miss  Mercy  and  finding  fault 
with  her,  /  can  tell  you  she's  made  me  believe 
things  Mrs.  Biff  nor  nobody  else  could  if  she  of- 
fered me  the  kingdom  of  heaven  and  a  chromo !  I 
never  believed  before  rich  folks  could  be  like  her. 
I  don't  know  what  that  Altrury  of  hers  is,  but  if 
she  believes  in  it  I'm  going  to ;  and  so  is  Phil,  and 
he's  going  to  make  them  stop  the  strike,  too;  and 
it's  a  whole  lot  because  of  what  she's  said  and  what 
I've  said  'bout  her.  It  is,  for  fair!" 

Thereupon  Nellie  burst  into  tears,  and  disappeared 
behind  the  kitchen  lattice. 

Later,  some  hours  later,  I  had  a  chance  to  tell 
Katy.  But  it  was  then  no  news  to  her.  She  shook 
her  philosophic  head.  "  'Lightning  and  grace,'  Biff 
used  to  say,  'you  can't  noways  bet  on,  for  there's 
no  manner  of  knowing  where  they'll  strike.'  Now 
that  Nellie,  she  fairly  bu'st  into  Miss  Mercy's  room, 
26 


AN    ADVENTURE   IN   ALTRURIA 

me  being  busy  seeing  Mr.  Gordon  safe  outer  the 
house ;  and  I  expected  to  find  she'd  riz  Miss  Mercy's 
temperature;  but  she'd  most  cured  her  instid;  and 
Miss  Mercy  she  set  up  and  laffed  out  loud.  And 
she  ain't  got  smallpox,  neither,  not  a  bit ;  no  more'n 
that  ijit  Sallie  Kane,  who's  down  with  German 
measles  and  nothing  wuss.  I  guess  we  was  all  more 
scared  than  hurt.  But  it  beats  all  about  Nellie — 
well,  I  want  to  be  fair  to  all,  she's  been  doing  the 
sweeping  better  for  a  good  while.  All  I  say  is,  if 
Alterruria  can  convert  Nellie  Small  there  must  be 
something  decent  in  Alterruria." 

"I  wish  it  might  convert  all  of  us — a  little/'  said 
I.  "I'm  afraid  I'm  not  enlightened  enough  to  de- 
sire entire  conversion;  it  would  demand  a  new  in- 
carnation !" 


27 


THROUGH  THE  TERRORS 
OF  THE  LAW 

A  STORY  OF  ARKANSAS 

SIST'  ESMERALDA  HUMPHREYS  was  not 
present  at  the  meeting  of  Zion  Hard-shell  Bap- 
tist Church.  It  is  questionable  whether  there  had 
been  any  such  meeting  had  she  been  likely  to  at- 
tend, since  how  to  dispense  with  the  ministry  of  Sis- 
ter Humphreys  was  its  object,  and  the  sister  was  a 
woman  of  power.  But  she  had  gone  to  the  store  for 
her  semi-annual  settlement  of  account.  Therefore 
the  disaffected  in  Zion  raised  their  heads,  perceiving 
that  their  hour  was  come. 

The  "church-house"  (of  a  week-day  the  school- 
house)  crowned  a  gentle  rise  of  ground  on  the  out- 
skirts of  an  Arkansas  plantation.  It  was  backed  by 
the  great  gum  forests,  where  the  sun  rose,  while  on 
one  side,  winding  toward  the  reddening  evening 
skies,  the  cypress  slash  had  eaten  its  way  through 
the  brown  clay  to  the  Black  River.  Full  of  mystery 
28 


THROUGH  THE  TERRORS  OF  THE  LAW 

and  uncanny  beauty  was  the  slash,  its  sluggish  gleam 
of  water  creeping  darkly  under  solemn  cypresses  and 
monstrous  hackberry-trees,  tinseled  with  cow-lilies 
in  summer,  spattered  with  blood-red  berries  in  win- 
ter, green  with  delicate  beauty  when  the  cypress  is 
in  leaf,  or  gray  and  softly  brown  when  its  short- 
lived foliage  falls.  Did  one  care  to  deal  in  mystical 
analogy,  one  might  find  in  the  slash  suggestions  of 
the  African's  undeveloped  soul,  where  brute  and 
child  still  battle  for  mastery. 

It  was  a  school-house  for  children  of  the  darker 
race  only,  and  only  negroes  were  in  the  little  band 
whose  hymns  penetrated  the  wide  sweep  of  cotton- 
fields,  the  weird  African  cadences  wilder  and  more 
mournful  than  the  hoot-owl's  oboe  keening  in  the 
forest.  To-night  the  house  was  but  sparsely  filled 
by  the  regular  worshipers,  Zion  congregation  proper. 
Brother  Zubaeel  Morrow  presided,  because  he  had 
once  attended  a  district  Republican  convention, 
where  he  had  imbibed  parliamentary  lore. 

"Dis  meetin'  will  please  come  to  ordah,"  he  an- 
nounced; "is  you-all  ready  fo'  de  question?" 

"W  are  question,  Bruddah  Morrow?"  called  out 
a  brother  in  the  rear  seats. 
29 


STORIES   THAT   END   WELL 

"Bruddah  Carroll,  you  is  out  of  ordah.  Whenst  I 
git  in  dis  cheer  an  take  dis  gabble," — he  extended 
the  hatchet  used,  before  its  promotion,  to  chop  kin- 
dling,— "take  notice,  I  is  de  Cheer;  you-all  is  to 
'dress  me  as  'Mist'  Cheerman.'  You  is  axin'  'bout  de 
question :  de  question  is,  Shall  Sist'  Esmereldy  Hum- 
phreys continner  to  usu'p  de  rights  of  we-alls  pas- 
tor? Ain't  dat  the  onderstandin'  of  dis  here  aw- 
jence?" 

Signs  of  approval  and  assent  came  from  the  audi- 
ence. The  chairman,  rising,  took  the  attitude  of  the 
white  speaker  whom  he  had  admired  most  at  the  con- 
vention, plunging  one  hand  into  the  bosom  of  his 
coat — buttoned  for  that  purpose — and  gazing  sol- 
emnly about  him.  All  the  colored  population  of 
the  country-side  were  proud  of  the  school-house, 
which  was  painted  a  neat  lead  color  as  to  wood- 
work and  brown  as  to  walls ;  with  red  lettering  done 
by  a  member  who  had  followed  the  painter's  trade 
(although  not  very  far),  declaring  piously  on  the 
west  wall,  "The  Lord  will  provide,"  and  politely  re- 
questing on  the  east  wall,  "Please  do  not  spit  on  the 
floor."  A  stately  blackboard  behind  the  teacher's 
desk  showed  her  excellent  moral  sentiments  and  pen- 
30 


THROUGH  THE  TERRORS  OF  THE  LAW 

manship.    There  was  no  carpet  on  the  floor,  but  it 
was  clean  and  the  windows  glistened. 

"Dis  yere  school-house,  dis  yere  chu'ch-house,  are 
a  credit  to  de  cullud  ladies  an'  genTmen  of  Zion 
Baptis'  Chu'ch,"  declaimed  Brother  Morrow,  sonor- 
ously/ an'  we-all  had  orter  have  a  pastor  who  w'u'd 
— we'd  correspond.  I  ain't  sayin'  one  word  of  dis- 
paraguement  of  our  late  deseased  pastor.  He  be'n 
a  good,  pious  man"  ("Amen!"  from  two  half-grown 
lads  in  the  rear),  "but  he  had  a  terrible  sight  of 
losses  an'  troubles,  losin'  all  of  his  chillen  like  he 
done ;  an'  him  sick  such  a  spell  befo'  de  Lawd  called 
him  f  'om  grace  to  glory.  Mabbe  he  didn't  be'n  elo- 
quent like  the  supply  we  had,  but  Elder  W'ite  had 
nare  right  to  git  Sist'  Lucy  Tompkins  to  run  'way 
wid  'im,  f'om  'er  good,  kin',  respectable  husban'  "  (a 
little  crumpled,  elderly  negro  raised  his  head  with  an 
air  pf  modest  pride),  "an'  he  done  borry  two  dollars 
an'  fifty  cents  of  de  cheer  dat  I  don't  expec'  nothin' 
of  ontwel  de  jedgment  day!  So  w'en  our  pastor 
passed  away  we'all  was  like  sheep  outen  a  shepherd ; 
an'  we'en  Sist'  Humphreys  done  offah  to  keep  de' 
chu'ch-house  clean  an'  cyan  on  de  services  of  Zion, 
an'  make  no  cha'ges,  we-all  acceptid." 
31 


STORIES   THAT   END   WELL 

"Mist'  Cheerman," — a  grizzled  negro  in  decent 
black  held  up  a  finger, — "Mist'  Cheerman,  was  hit 
Sist'  Humphreys  keep  dis  'ouse  dis  away?" 

"Yes,  Bruddah  Moore;  she  are  a  right  good 
scrubber,"  admitted  the  chairman,  while  the  congre- 
gation stared  at  the  speaker,  the  richest  colored  man 
in  the  county,  who  had  moved  into  the  neighborhood 
recently,  this  being  his  first  appearance  in  Zion. 

"Fo'  a  spell,"  continued  the  chairman,  "t'ings 
went  on  suspiciously  enough.  Sist'  Humphreys  be'n 
an  edicated  lady ;  an'  she  is  a  plumb  good  cook.  Her 
preachin'  didn't  be'n  whut  we-all  air  longin'  to  heah ; 
nare  shakin'  of  de  soul  ovah  de  mouf  of  hell,  nare 
mo'nin',  nare  revivals;  but  we  hilt  our  peace,  an' 
Zion  attendid  regular,  an'  las'  socherable  gatherin' 
there  be'n  nigh  a  hunderd,  big  an'  little,  presint — 

"And  she  gave  us  all  cake  and  candy  and  lemon- 
ade with  ice  in  it !"  a  woman's  mellow  voice  called 
out. 

The  heads  of  the  congregation  went  round  in  the 
direction  of  the  voice,  and  a  large  number  of  rolling 
black  eyes  stared  at  the  school-teacher,  whose  comely 
brown  face  showed  that  deepening  of  tint  which  is 
the  same  as  an  Anglo-Saxon's  blush.  "Teacher"  had 
32 


THROUGH  THE  TERRORS  OF  THE  LAW 

been  educated  at  Tuskegee  and  was  suspected  of  be- 
ing "biggity." 

The  chairman  gave  her  a  gloomy  nod.  "No  doubt, 
my  sistah,  no  doubt  hankerin'  ayfter  de  flesh-pots  of 
Egypt  done  fotch  some  po'  sinnahs  t'  de  altar.  I  ain't 
complainin'  of  de  carnil  an'  carniferous  food  she 
done  give  us,  but  of  de  spitichul  nu'ishment.  I  nev' 
did  see  a  mo'ner  rollin'  on  dis  flp'  w'ilst  Sist  Hum- 
phreys be'n  yere.  We-all  be'n  thirstin'  an'  famishin' 
fo'  a  good  ol'-time  revival.  But  we  enjured  ontwel 
one  day  de  glory  come  on  Br'er  Pope,  an'  he  hol- 
lered,— tryin'  to  lif  us  all  up, — 'Amen!  Amen! 
Let  de  sinner  quit  sinnin'  an'  he  skill  be  saved !' 
An'  dat  ar  woman  she  call  out:  'Yes;  let  'im  quit 
sinnin' !  Let  'im  quit  sellin'  of  aigs  to  de  sto'  w'en  he 
don't  be  keepin'  pnly  one  hen!'  Dat  ar  remark  in- 
cinerated false  an'  wicked  notions  'bout  Unc'  Alick 
Pope,  who  lives  nigh  de  cunnel's  chicken-yard."  (A 
solitary  giggle  from  the  shoolmistress.)  "She  done 
ifa'ly  r'ar  an'  charge  'bout  chicken-stealin'.  Dat 
ain't  promote  edderfication  nor  good  feelin'." 
(Groans  of  assent  from  a  deeply  interested  audi- 
ence.) "But  nex'  Sabbath  come  wuss.  She  done 
announce  she  be'n  'lowin'  to  preach  us  a  serious  dis- 
33 


STORIES   THAT   END    WELL 

course  on  de  Ten  Commandmints.  Well,  we-all  done 
look  dem  commandmints  up  an'  study  on  dem  a 
heap.  We  felt  tol'able  secure  on  de  Fust  an*  Second, 
she  lumpin'  dem  togedder  fo'  one  out  at  preachin' ; 
an'  we  sat  back  easy,  hopin'  fo'  grace  an'  true  re- 
ligion ;  but  she  jes  slued  roun'  on  to  conjure-cha'ms 
an'  such,  invagin'  ag'in'  dem  twell  we  got  all  de  de- 
votional feelin'  plumb  squoze  outen  us.  Third  Com- 
mandmint  we  natchelly  didn't  expec'  no  harm  of; 
but  ayfter  de  fust  godly  words  'bout  profane  sw'ar- 
in',  ef  she  didn't  git  on  to  false  sw'arin'  befo'  the 
gran'  jury,  'bout  crap-shootin',  en  git  us  all  terrible 
oncomfortable.  Nex'  command  she  didn't  be'n 
sound  on,  sayin'  a  heap  'bout  washin'  up  in  tubs  Sat- 
tiddy  nights,  an'  tew  little  'bout  de  spitichul  ovserva- 
tion  of  the  holy  day;  an'  come  down  hard  on  a 
respectid  brother  who  sayd  once,  'I  isn't  to  wash  in 
winter' ;  an'  sayd  bad  wuds  'bout  sisters  dat  went 
visitin'  Sattiddy  evenin's,  stidder  washin'  up  ready 
f o'  de  holy  day ;  sayd  some  sisters  nev'  did  wash  de 
po'  little  tricks'  shirts,  jes'  taken  a  new  flour-sack  an' 
cut  holes  in  it.  She  talked  like  dat  ontwel  it  be'n 
right  ondecent  and  onchristian;  an'  one  sister  dat's 
subjec'  to  fits  providenchelly  done  t'rowcd  one  an' 
34 


THROUGH  THE  TERRORS  OF  THE  LAW 

bruk  up  de  meetin*.  But  we-all  sorter  done  spunk 
up  on  de  Fif '  Commandmint ;  looked  lak  hit  be'n  sho' 
harmliss ;  an'  we  done  fotch  de  chillen  to  learn  deir 
jury  to  deir  parents.  Well,  dey  sho'  got  it !  But  den 
she  done  scorched  de  parents  mightily  'bout  de  'zam- 
ple  dey  be'n  bleeged  to  set  de  chillen.  Dat  ar  be'n  a 
fearful,  sufferin'  hour,  an'  I  nev'  did  see  dis  yere 
congregation  so  dry  an'  havin'  to  git  out  de  pump 
so  often.  Dey  went  by  whole  famblies ;  an'  bef o'  she 
be'n  f  row  mighty  nigh  ever'  las'  chil'  b'en  taken  out- 
side. We  didn't  dost  let  'em  see  frow  it."  (Groans 
all  over  the  house.)  "She  nigh  bust  de  chu'ch  on 
de  Sixth  Commandmint  wid  outrageous  rema'ks  on 
razors.  An'  nex'  Sunday  comes  de  Seventh  Com- 
mandmint, an'  we  ain't  nowise  willin  to  enjure  her 
handlin'  of  dat,  nohow."  (Deep  groans  of  assent 
from  brothers  and  sisters  alike.)  "Nor  de  Eight', 
neider."  ("No,  no!"  from  the  seat  of  Uncle  Alex- 
ander Pope.)  "Wust  is,  de  ongodly  outside,  de 
Methodists  an'  de  cullud  folks  from  de  Ridge,  is  fix- 
in'  to  come  over  an'  see  we-all  ripped  up.  De  chu'ch 
house  be'n  plumb  full  ever'  Sabbath,  an'  we-all  don' 
dast  stay  'way,  not  knowin'  what  scandillous  stories 
will  be  circulated."  ("Dat's  so!"  "Holp,  Lord!" 
35 


STORIES   THAT    END    WELL 

from  earnest  souls  in  the  audience.)  "An'  de  chu'ch 
is  losin'  of  members.  Bruddah  Dan  Williams  done 
moved  away."  ("No,  sah,  no,  he  ain't;  he  b'en  sent 
to  de  pen!"J  "I  didn't  say  how  come  he  moved, 
Brudder  Carroll ;  he  are  gone.  Unc'  Jim  Hollis  done 
'bandon  his  crop.  Aunt  Caledonia  Ray  lef '  las'  week 
'count  of  injur'us  reflections  'bout  a  mince  pie  she 
done  mix  up  by  mistake  wid  de  week's  wash  she 
taken  fum  de  big  house.  We  done  pled  wid  Sist' 
Humphreys  to  quit;  but  she  won't  quit.  Now  de 
question  am :  How  shill  we  git  saved  f 'om  Sist' 
Humphreys  an'  git  a  preacher  will  preach  religion — 
an'  nuffin  else?" 

Amid  a  deep  hum  of  applause  Brother  Morrow  sat 
down.  Half  a  dozen  voices  begged  for  attention; 
but  the  chair  recognized  Sister  Susannah  Belle  Coffin. 
Sister  Susannah  was  of  exceeding  comeliness  and  a 
light-brown  complexion.  If  report  spake  truly,  there 
was  no  one  in  Zion  who  had  more  reason  to  dread 
a  fearless  and  minute  exposition  of  the  demands  of 
the  Seventh  Commandment.  She  had  started  her  ca- 
reer as  a  destroyer  of  domestic  peace  with  a  capital 
of  good  looks,  a  gift  for  cookery,  a  voice  of  silver, 
and  two  small  unpremeditated  children.  "A  single 
36 


THROUGH  THE  TERRORS  OF  THE  LAW 

pussen  like  me  wid  two  chillen,"  would  be  her  plain- 
tive excuse  for  demanding  the  good  offices  of  the 
brothers  in  cutting  wood  or  "palin'  in  her  gyardin" ; 
and  too  often,  under  the  spell  of  Susannah's  eyes  and 
Susannah's  voice  and  Susannah's  cooking,  the  end  of 
an  innocent  neighborly  kindness  was  a  jealous  wife 
and  a  "parting."  Sometimes  Susannah  wedded  the 
departing  husband,  sometimes  she  flouted  him;  but 
steadily,  single  or  wedded,  Susannah's  little  garden- 
plot  grew  more  beautiful,  Susannah's  kitchen  range 
accumulated  a  more  dazzling  array  of  tin  and  cop- 
per, and  Susannah's  best  room  was  more  splendidly 
bedecked  with  curtains,  pillow-shams,  and  a  gilt 
mirror. 

At  present  speaking,  the  dark  enchantress  was  the 
lawful  wedded  wife  of  the  young  blacksmith,  and 
the  whole  plantation  had  admired  to  see  her  enter  the 
holy  estate  in  white  Swiss  muslin  and  a  voluminous 
veil  which  she  utilized,  later,  as  a  window-curtain. 
She  now  inquired  with  much  pleasing  modesty  of 
mien:  "I  jes  want  to  ask,  Mist'  Cheerman,  how're 
we-all  to  git  Sist'  Humphreys  to  go  if  she  don' 
wanter?" 

Sighs,  allied  to  groans,  bore  testimony  that  she  had 
37 


STORIES   THAT   END   WELL 

voiced  the  forebodings  of  the  audience.  But  a  visit- 
ing brother  who  had  the  courage  of  his  non-resi- 
dence, came  to  the  front;  he  suggested  that  a  letter 
be  sent  to  the  sister,  announcing  the  sense  of  the 
meeting,  saying  that  the  congregation  was  not  edi- 
fied by  her  ministrations  and  that  the  church-house 
\n  ould  be  closed  until  a  new  pastor  had  been  selected. 

"De  motion,  as  de  cheer  un'erstands  it,  are  to  dis- 
miss Sist'  Esmeraldy  Humphreys  an'  shet  de  do's  on 
her,"  said  the  chairman.  "Is — what  is  it,  Sist'  Mack- 
lin?" 

He  spoke  kindly,  and  the  woman  whom  he  ad- 
dressed seemed  in  need  of  kindness,  since  she  was 
trembling  visibly.  She  was  a  little  creature  in  the 
pathetic  compromise  for  mourning  which  poverty 
makes  with  grief — her  accustomed  winter  jacket  of 
brown,  but  with  a  somber  garnishment  of  crape, 
black  ribbons  on  her  old  gray  hat,  and  a  black  border 
to  her  handkerchief. 

The  congregation  looked  at  her,  pityingly,  as  she 
began  in  the  high-pitched  voice  of  the  unaccustomed 
speaker : 

"Bruddah  Morrow — I  mean  Bruddah  Cheerman, 
I  are  right  mortified  Sist'  Humphreys  done  chastice 
38 


THROUGH  THE  TERRORS  OF  THE  LAW 

you  all ;  but  I  jest  got  to  b'ar  my  testimony  you-all 
are  mistaken  'bout  her  bein'  crool.  Oh,  dear  brud- 
dahs  an'  sistahs,  she  ain't!  You-all  knows  my — my 
boy" — she  choked  over  the  word,  and  the  hearers 
waited  in  mute  and  awkward  compassion,  because 
her  boy,  the  last  of  her  children,  had  been  hanged  at 
the  little  county-seat  only  a  month  before  for  the 
murder  of  his  wife — "my  boy  w'u'dn't  repent;  he 
w'u'dn't  do  nuffin  but  cuss  de  woman  dat  fotch  him 
dar  an'  den  nebber  so  much  look  at  him.  I  spen' 
ever'  las'  cent  I  had  on  earth  to  try  git  him  off,  an' 
I  taken  de  jail  wash,  I  did,  to  be  nigh  'im  an'  mabbe 
git  him  a  bite  like  he's  uster  to  eat ;  but  he  w'u'dn't 
paht  lips  wid  me ;  sayd  I  be'n  a  good  mudder  to  him, 
but  he  didn't  want  to  h'ar  me  beggin'  an'  pleadin' 
wid  'im  to  repent  an'  make  peace  wid  God.  Oh,  I 
did  be'n  in  de  brack  water,  wadin'  deep!  Look  laak 
I  c'u'dn't  enjure  hit  nohow.  I  reckon  I  does  nebber 
be  able  to  see  so  well  'cause  I  cry  so  stiddy  dem 
days.  An'  all  de  cry  of  my  po'  ol'  hairt  be'n,  *O 
Lawd,  I  don'  no  mo'  ax  you  to  save  his  life,  but,  O 
Lawd,  don'  let  'im  die  cussin'!  Fotch  'im  'ome!  I 
kin  b'ar  hit  to  have  'im  go,  if  he  sho'  goes  whar  he 
kin  be  good  an'  be  happy  an'  be  safe;  fo'  I  does 
39 


STORIES   THAT    END   .WELL 

know  dat  boy  nev'  did  aim  to  be  mean.'  An'  w'en 
my  hairt  be'n  broke  wid  longin'  an'  mis'ry,  Sist' 
Humphreys  she  come.  She  done  holp  me  all  fru; 
an'  now  she  went  to  my  boy;  he  hatter  see  her.  I 
don'  know  w'at  she  say;  but  she  come  back  to  me 
an'  say,  'Praise  God,  dat  po'  sinnah  hab  foun'  peace 
an'  joy — an'  he  want  his  mudder!'  An'  I  did  come. 
An'  he  putt  his  po'  haid  on  my  knees  jes  lak  w'en  he 
be'n  a  li'le  boy  an'  uster  laff  'bout  de  big  kin'lin'-pile 
he  allers  keep  fo'  his  mammy.  An'  Sist'  Humphreys, 
some  way  she  git  dem  jailer-men  be  so  kin'  an'  ten- 
der to  'im,  lak  I  cayn't  noways  tell.  An'  he  did  die 
happy.  De  Lawd  sustain  him,  an'  he  sustain  me. 
Blessed  be  de  name  of  de  Lawd,  an'  blessed  be  dat 
'oman  dat  is  his  ministah !" 

She  sank  down  in  her  seat  and  wept  quietly,  while 
the  impressionable  African  temperament  sent  forth 
pious  ejaculations :  "Holp,  Lawd !"  "Fotch  com- 
fort!" "Bless  de  mo'nahs !"  The  schoolmistress  was 
in  tears,  and  the  stalwart  young  man  near  her  openly 
wiped  his  eyes.  Brother  Moore  bent  his  brows ;  even 
Brother  Morrow  winked  hard :  but  Sister  Susan- 
nah's emotion  was  most  in  evidence;  she  was  sob- 
bing violently  into  a  pink-embroidered  handkerchief. 
40 


THROUGH  THE  TERRORS  OF  THE  LAW 

Presently  she  rose  to  her  feet.  Now  Susannah  was 
the  woman  who  had  lured  the  wretched  murderer 
through  a  brutal  passion  to  a  brutal  crime,  and  the 
eyes  of  the  congregation  were  focused  upon  her. 

"Bruddahs,  sistahs,"  said  Susannah,  in  her  won- 
derful voice,  with  its  chords  of  plaintive  music, 
which  made  her  hearers  grin  out  of  sheer  emotion, 
"I  nev'  did  aim  to  do  dat  po'  young  man  hurt ;  but 
he  sayd  t'ings  to  me,  t'ings" — she  sighed  and  hung 
her  head — "he  hadn't  orter  have  sayd,  him  bein'  a 
married  man ;  an'  I  be'n  right  mad  at  him,  an'  I  own 
up  I  done  him  right  onchristian  an'  onmussiful,  for 
I  didn't  show  no  sympathy  or  even  go  see  'm  hanged. 
Now,  I  do  repent.  But  it  ain't  nare  preachin'  of  Sist' 
Humphreys  done  give  me  a  brokin  an'  a  contrary 
hairt.  Her  scorchin'  don'  make  me  mo'n.  Hit  cakes 
up  my  hairt.  She  nev'  did  have  one  single  revival. 
Rev.  Bulkely  of  de  Ridge  he  does  have  a  mighty  big 
one  ever'  spring;  you  kin  hear  de  screeches  'mos' 
a  mile!  He  tol'  me  hisse'f  he  w'u'd  be  willin'  to 
minister  a  spell  to  dis  sorely  tried  flock,  an',  mo'- 
ovah,  he  tol'  me  dat  we-all  c'u'dn't  have  Sist' 
Humphreys  nor  no  woman  preach  to  us ;  for  it  be'n 


STORIES   THAT   END   .WELL 

ag'in'  de  rule  of  de  Baptis'  Chu'ch.  Hit  be'n  forbid. 
We  cayn't  be  Baptis'  an'  keep  Sist'  Humphreys." 

With  meek  grace  Susannah  resumed  her  seat  and 
the  sheltering  support  of  the  blacksmith's  arm.  She 
had  won.  Now  that  a  way  of  escape  was  opened, — 
a  way,  moreover,  ending  in  a  dazzling  vista  of  a 
"big  revival," — no  sympathy  for  the  Widow  Mack- 
lin  could  induce  Zion  to  face  the  fiery  chariots  of  the 
Seventh  Commandment  driven  by  Sister  Humphreys. 

In  spite  of  the  schoolmistress'  eloquence  and  the 
stumbling  speech  of  two  boys  who  tried  to  tell  that 
Sister  Humphreys  had  done  a  heap  for  them,  when 
the  vote  was  put,  only  six  of  the  forty-eight  persons 
present  voted  to  retain  the  preacher.  Brother  Moore 
declined  to  vote. 

Susannah  watched  the  downcast  faces  of  Sister 
Humphreys'  supporters  through  her  half-shut  eyes. 
and  smiled  her  languid,  mysterious  smile. 

But  of  a  sudden  one  of  the  two  striplings  who 
had  spoken  for  Sister  Humphreys  left  his  place  by 
the  window  and  ran  to  the  door. 

With  instant  premonition  of  peril,  the  flock  of 
Zion  turned  on  the  benches.  A  deep  intake  of  breath 
signified  their  dismay  as  there  entered  a  tall  brown 
42 


THROUGH  THE  TERRORS  OF  THE  LAW 

woman  in  widow's  weeds.  She  cast  a  calm,  full  eye 
over  the  faces  under  the  lamplights — faces  already 
stricken  awry  with  fear;  for,  notwithstanding  their 
numbers  and  apparent  strength  of  position,  dread  of 
the  pastor  insisted,  as  light  insists  through  closed 
eyelids. 

Sister  Humphreys  walked  with  no  pause  to  the 
platform.  Brother  Morrow  was  so  short  a  man  and 
she  was  so  tall  a  woman  that  her  handsome  head 
towered  above  his.  She  was  a  brown  negro,  but 
her  lighter  color  and  her  regular  features  and  thin- 
ner, more  sensitive  lips  were  due  to  no  admixture  of 
white  blood;  they  came  from  a  dash  of  the  yellow 
races  mixed  long  before  her  time  in  the  Old  World, 
where  her  ancestors  were  barbaric  princes.  She 
stood  with  the  incomparable  grace  that  is  given 
sometimes  to  the  bearer  of  burdens,  tall,  erect, 
shapely.  She  spoke  in  a  mellow  rich  voice  not  raised 
a  note  above  its  speaking  tone. 

"Is  this  heah  a  meetin'  ?"  gently  interrogated  Sis- 
ter Humphreys  of  Brother  Morrow,  "or  have  you-all 
done  aju'ned?" 

"^Ye  done  aju'ned,  sistah,"  Brother  Morrow  re- 
plie"d  quickly,  flinching  from  a  possible  trap. 
43 


STORIES   THAT   END   .WELL 

"In  that  case,"  Sister  Humphreys  argued  at  once, 
"will  you  kindly  take  you'  seat  an'  let  me  speak  fo' 
de  las'  time  to  Zion  Baptis'  Chu'ch?" 

It  was  impossible  to  refuse  a  hearing.  Brother 
Morrow  shuffled  into  a  lower  seat. 

"My  people," — a  vague,  incomprehensible  thrill  of 
apprehension  and  magnetic  fascination  stirred  the  at- 
tentive faces,  all  save  the  widow  Macklin's;  hers  was 
bent  on  her  own  withered,  toil-crooked  hands  while 
she  prayed, — "I  want  to  say,  first,  that  I  nev'  did  aim 
to  keep  on  hu'tin'  you'  feelin's.  But  I  am  'bleeged 
to  save  you'  souls.  You-all  know  how  my  po'  hus- 
ban'  toiled  an'  prayed.  Thar's  ol'  people  who  loved 
him  an'  followed  his  teachin's,  but  they  went  to  their 
reward,  an'  he  was  lef  with  a  generation  of  young 
niggers  who  feared  neither  God  nor  man  nor  the 
grand  jury — lying,  stealing,  with  no  more  morals 
than  pigs  an'  no  great  cleaner.  It  broken  my  po'  ol' 
man's  heart,  so  he  hadn't  no  strength  to  stand  the 
breast  complaint,  so  he  died.  The  last  night  I  heard 
him  praying  for  you,  an'  I  come  to  him.  When  he 
looked  up  at  me  I  knowed  I  couldn't  hold  him;  I 
knowed  he  ain't  never  again  goin'  look  up  at  me  with 
the  light  in  his  eyes  an'  the  love  in  his  smile  like  he 
44 


THROUGH  THE  TERRORS  OF  THE  LAW 

looked  then.  An'  I  sayd  to  him,  'Silas,  honey,  don' 
you  worry  'bout  that  there  wuthless  flock  of  yours. 
I'll  save  'em.  I  know  the  way.  I  sho'  do !'  An'  he 
believed  me;  because  of  his  believing  me  his  end  was 
peace.  So  you  see,  my  people,  I  am  'bleeged  to  save 
you.  I  tol*  him  I  know  the  way ;  I  do  know  it.  You* 
pastor,  who  is  a  saint  in  heaven,  done  used  always 
the  ways  of  gentleness.  He  preached  the  love  of 
God,  an'  you  swallered  it  down,  smiling  and  happy; 
an'  it  ain't  done  you-all  no  mo'  good  than  stick  candy 
does  do  a  person  that  done  taken  poison  an'  needs 
wahm  water  an'  mustard.  What  you-all  needed 
didn't  be'n  loving  kindness,  but  the  terrors  of  the 
law,  an'  not  strained^  neider.  An'  if  it  takes  the  las* 
day  of  my  pilgrimage,  you'll  git  'em  till  you  begin  to 
repent  an'  show  works  meet  for  repentence.  But 
when  you  begin  to  repent,  the  word  of  mercy  will 
come.  'Cause  when  the  prodigal  son  be'n  a  long  way 
off,  his  father  come  a-runnin'  to  him.  Now,  hark  to 
me :  I  went  this  evening  to  the  cunnel.  He  explained 
to  me  about  the  Baptis'  dis-a/>-line."  (A  ripple  of 
excitement  in  the  audience.)  "In  consequence,  this 
chu'ch  will  hereayfter  be  the  Methodis'  Zion  Chu'ch. 
That  is  why  I  am  speaking  fo'  the  las'  time  to  Zion 
45 


STORIES   THAT   END   .WELL 

Baptis'  Chu'ch.  Ayfter  to-night  there  won't  be  no 
Zion  Baptis'  Chu'ch.  There  ain't  no  great  difference 
in  doctrine,  an'  the  dis-a/>-line  is  more  convenient. 
Any  brother  or  sister  desiring  it,  an'  not  in  clanger 
of  catching  col',  can  be  immersed.  The  cunnel  an'  I 
done  talked  this  over;  an'  he  done  rented  this  chu'ch- 
house  to  me.  If  the  congregation  ain't  satisfied,  they 
got  to  take  to  the  woods.  I  also  got  one  word  mo' 
to  say :  it  is  that  the  work  of  grace  in  this  community 
is  a  right  smart  hampered  by  the  evil  doings  of  Sister 
Susannah  Coffin." 

Susannah  and  her  husband  were  both  on  their 
feet,  both  ready  to  speak ;  but  something  in  the  atti- 
tude of  the  figure  on  the  platform  to  which  the  long 
lines  of  the  mourning-veil  gave  a  strange  suggestion 
of  sibylline  dignity,  held  speech  away  from  them. 
Solemnly  and  not  with  any  anger,  Sister  Hum- 
phreys' eyes  searched  the  eyes  of  the  man  and  wom- 
an before  her,  while  the  spectators  held  their  breath. 
"Wherefo'  it  is  bettah  ever'  way,"  she  said  slowly, 
"that  both  her  an'  her  husband  go  out  from  us  fo'- 
evermo'.  Bruddah  Coffin,  the  cunnel  has  got  an- 
other blacksmith,  an*  you  ain't  got  no  mo'  reason  fo' 
stayin'  on  longer.  And  as  fo'  you,  Sister — 
46 


THROUGH  THE  TERRORS  OF  THE  LAW 

"I  won't  go!"  shrilled  Susannah,  hysterically 
weeping ;  it  was  with  no  pretense  now.  "You  cayn't 
fo'ce  me!" 

"You  will  go,  Sister,  fo'  you  don'  wanter  lose  the 
young  man  you  got  now.  You  will  go ;  an'  you  will 
take  him  along  of  you;  an'  you  will  go  so  far  he 
cayn't  heah  no  word  of  my  sermons.  Go  in  peace." 

Susannah  faced  about,  writhing  between  fear  and 
rage.  "You  cowards!  you  ornery,  pusillanimous 
cowards!"  she  flung  back  at  the  gaping  black  faces. 
"You  putt  on  dog  when  she  ain't  heah,  but  minute 
she  lif 's  her  han',  you  cayn't  make  a  riffle !  Ba-h-h ! 
S-sh!"  she  hissed  at  them  like  a  cat  or  a  snake. 
"Come  on,  you  fool  nigger!"  she  jeered,  pulling  at 
her  bewildered  husband's  collar;  and  in  this  sorry 
fashion,  but  still  with  her  head  high,  she  left  Zion 
for  ever. 

"An'  now,"  concluded  Sister  Esmeralda  Hum- 
phreys sedately,  "let  us  all  try  fo'  to  lead  a  bettah 
life.  I  shall  preach  nex'  Sunday  on  the  Seventh  Com- 
mandment, an'  all  them  that  feels  they  have  broke 
that  commandment  is  at  free  liberty  to  stay  away.  I 
shall  expec'  to  see  all  the  res'  of  you,  even  if  'tis 
fallin'  weader.  Let  us  all  sing  befo'  we  go : 
47 


STORIES   THAT   END   WELL 

'Blest  be  the  tie  that  binds 

Our  hearts  in  Christian  love ; 
The  fellowship  of  kindred  minds 
Is  like  to  that  above.'  " 


Brother  Moore  arose.  "Sisf  Humphreys,"  he 
announced,  "you  got  de  right  kin'  o'  gospil  light  in 
you.  I  cayn't  jine  in  the  singin'  'cause  since  I  got 
my  store  teef  I  ain't  be'n  able  to  cyar'  a  chune ;  but 
I  want  to  do  sumfin  de  wuk  er  grace ;  an'  I  got  up 
to  say  dat  de  nex'  socherble  gatherin'  I'll  donate  de 
lemons." 

"Dis  meetin'  accep's  with  t'anks,"  shouted  Brother 
Morrow.  "Now,  le's  show  our  beloved  pastor  the 
clouds  is  swep'  away!  All  sing!" 

And  never  had  so  noble  a  burst  of  melody  wak- 
ened the  echoes  along  the  moonlit  road  as  that  which 
made  the  colonel  outside  turn,  smiling,  in  his  saddle. 

"She  didn't  need  me,"-  he  mused.  "Well,  so  much 
the  better.  I  reckon  they  need  a  good  despot,  and 
they've  got  one,  all  right" 


THE  REAL  THING 

THE  club  had  gone,  save  only  the  guest  of  the 
afternoon  and  a  few  friends  of  the  hostess,  who 
lingered  to  congratulate  her.  It  had  been  a  most  suc- 
cessful meeting.  The  guest  who  had  spoken  was  the 
president  of  a  southern  club.  The  hearers  were 
warm  in  their  praises  of  the  leisurely  music  of  her 
southern  voice,  the  charm  of  her  southern  manner, 
so  simple  and  direct  and  sympathetic,  her  beauty, 
her  grace,  even  of  the  finish  of  her  toilet.  She  had 
handled  a  weighty  subject  with  a  light  touch  (it  was 
the  child  labor  of  the  south),  and  her  husband  being 
a  very  large  manufacturer,  she  had  spoken  out  of 
experience  as  well  as  theory.  Moreover,  she  had 
shown  a  luminous  common  sense  and  a  tolerant 
humor  such  as  did  not  always  brighten  such  serious 
themes;  and  not  only  the  earnest  students  of  the 
club,  but  the  more  flippant  members,  were  aroused  to 
an  unusual  and  captivated  attention.  Now  they 
were  loath  to  let  her  go;  pressing  about,  tarrying 
amid  the  teacups,  and  only  reluctantly  faring  forth 
49 


-  STORIES   THAT   END   .WELU 

as  the  maids  appeared  to  remove  the  wreckage  of  the 
feast.  The  hostess  sank,  weary  but  elated,  into  a 
chair  by  Miss  Clymer,  the  secretary,  as  the  last  silken 
skirt  rustled  away.  Mrs.  Waite,  the  president,  who 
was  dallying  with  socialism,  had  evidently  intro- 
duced her  new  pet  to  the  visitor,  who  listened  po- 
litely. 

"After  all,"  suggested  Mrs.  Clymer,  more  from 
the  amiable  design  of  steering  the  conversation 
within  safe  limits  than  out  of  any  craving  to  exploit 
her  own  views,  "after  all,  do  we  really  know  how 
these  people  feel  ?  Is  there  one  of  us,  for  example, 
who  ever  had  an  intimate  friend  among  them,  a 
woman  who  worked  with  her  hands?" 

"Madelaide  Dunbar  told  me  once,"  remarked  the 
youngest  club  member,  "that  she  was  fonder  of  her 
maid  than  of  most  of  her  friends." 

"Which  maid  ?"  inquired  another.  "The  one  who 
took  her  pearl  necklace?" 

"Nobody  took  those  pearls;  Madelaide  hid  them 
herself,  and  forgot  all  about  it,  and  then  found  them 
in  her  soiled-handkerchief  bag!  But  it  wasn't  that 
one.  This  one  had  a  little  wave  to  her  nose  and  her 
eyes  were  near  together." 
50 


THE    REAL   THING 

"Is  she  with  Madelaide  now?" 

"I  think  she  married.  Madelaide  ,was  buying  tea- 
spoons the  other  day,  and  asking  for  rather  light 
,  weight — maybe  they  were  for  her  wedding  present." 

The  South  Carolinian  smothered  a  smile.  "Made- 
laide doesn't  exactly  count,"  said  the  hostess. 

A  new  voice  took  up  the  theme,  a  sweet,  rather 
diffident  voice,  to  which,  nevertheless,  the  circle  lis- 
tened with  an  attention  that  was  almost  distinction. 
She  who  spoke  had  been  born  in  the  little  mid- West- 
ern city,  and  there  she  had  spent  her  early  youth, 
but  she  had  married  a  rich  man  of  the  East,  and  was 
only  a  visitor  to-day.  The  Ridgelys  were  people  of 
importance ;  and  Constance  Ridgely,  the  only  child, 
who  never  went  to  parties  with  boys,  and  only  paid 
visits  with  her  mother,  and  finally  disappeared  into 
vistas  of  fashion  and  intimacy  with  the  peerage,  was 
a  person  of  mark.  The  more,  that  no  splendid  trans- 
formation had  altered  her  affection  for  the  town,  or 
her  gentle,  almost  shy  modesty  of  manner.  She 
flushed  slightly  now  as  she  spoke.  "The  best,  the 
dearest  girl  friend  I  ever  had,  used  to  work  with  her 
hands,"  said  she. 

The  sudden  silence  was  almost  the  dumbness  of 


STORIES   THAT   END   .WELL 

dismay ;  but  the  hostess  sprang  nimbly  to  the  rescue 
with  a  murmur  of  "How  picturesque!" 

"Why,  of  course,"  cried  Mrs.  Clymer.  "I  wish 
you  would  tell  us  of  it.  You  mean  Nannie,  don't 
you?" 

The  Southerner  leaned  slightly  forward,  with  a 
look  of  interest. 

"It  is  so  long  ago,"  said  Mrs.  Curtis,  who  had  been 
Constance  Ridgely,  "but  something  has  made  me 
think  of  Nannie  all  the  afternoon.  My  friendship 
with  Nannie  began  almost  thirty  years  ago,  when 
Miss  Arthur  kept  the  Pleasant  Street  kindergarten 
next  to  No.  3.  The  school  was  a  dear;  but  I  remem- 
ber so  well  the  odd  mixture  of  admiration  and  dread 
I  felt  for  the  big,  tumultuous  public  school.  The  boys 
used  to  make  faces  at  us,  but  they  were  so  daring 
and  they  turned  somersaults  so  nimbly !  And  I  was 
devoured  with  curiosity  regarding  the  little  girls  who 
came  to  school  without  their  nurses.  I  thought  it 
must  be  grand!  One  little  girl  I  singled  out.  She 
used  to  wear  a  red  jersey  and  a  red  tam-o'-shanter. 
She  wasn't  precisely  pretty — according  to  my  child- 
ish, wax-dolly  standard  of  beauty — but  there  was 
something  fascinating  in  the  way  her  silky  mop  of 
52 


THE    REAL    THING 

brown  hair  flung  itself  to  the  wind,  in  the  flash  of 
her  brown  eyes  and  her  white  teeth  and  the  feather- 
down  lightness  of  her  motions.    She  was  as  reckless 
of  her  frock  as  her  bones — I  was  trained  to  be  very 
careful  of  both.    The  fearless  rush  with  which  she 
would  slide  down  the  high  bank  or  skin  up  a  tree  to 
the  very  awful,  oscillating  top — I  can't  describe  the 
awesome  joy  of  seeing  her!   And  she  was  so  gay; 
she  had  the  sweetest,  merriest  laugh  in  the  world. 
I  loved  it.    Ah,  how  many  times  did  I  glue  my  de- 
mure little  face,  which  hid  so  many  wild  fancies,  to 
a  certain  knot-hole  in  that  high,  high  fence  of  Miss 
Arthur's,  which  all  our  mothers  praised  because  it 
protected  our  privacy,  watching  the  boys  and  girls, 
and  my  girl  run  out  to  recess !    And,  oh,  the  blow  it 
was  when  the  hour  of  recess  at  the  kindergarten  was 
changed !    Because  the  No.  3  boys  stole  Bennie  Olm- 
stead's  roller  skates,  and  there  was  a  combat,  in 
which  our  injured  and  innocent  boys  were  no  match 
for  the  wicked  No.  3's;  and  Miss  Betty,  who  at- 
tended to  minor  matters  of  our  physical  comfort, 
being  only  the  third  kindergartner,  who  was  learning 
and  received  no  salary,  and  of  course  had  most  of 
the  drudgery,  washed  at  least  four  bloody  noses  and 
53 


STORIES   THAT   END   WELL 

one  bitten  ear,  and  put  butchers'  brown  paper  on  half 
a  dozen  bruises,  while  the  little  girls  wept  for  sym- 
pathy and  Bennie  howled  for  his  skates !  I  wept, 
too ;  but  it  was  because  I  could  never  any  more  look 
through  the  knot-hole  for  Nannie.  I  knew  her  name, 
because  I  heard  it  so  often.  And  then,  in  the  midst 
of  my  dejection,  I  met  her.  It  was  by  accident.  Tina 
had  come  for  me  in  the  carriage,  but  Harland,  hav- 
ing an  errand  at  the  harness  shop,  had  sent  her  on 
ahead,  and  we  two  were  waiting  for  him  on  the  curb- 
stone. Of  a  sudden  we  heard  an  appalling  outcry  of 
canine  yelps  and  boyish  yells,  and  I  saw  a  sickening 
sight,  a  wretched  little  dog  with  a  tin  can  tied  to  his 
tail,  which  clattered  against  the  bricks  of  the  side- 
walk as  he  bounded;  and  in  the  can  a  huge  fire- 
cracker spitting  fire!  For  sheer  terror  lest  I  should 
see  the  catastrophe,  I  covered  up  my  face.  And  then 
I  heard  my  Nannie's  voice,  'Here,  doggie!  Here, 
poor  doggie !'  I  let  my  little  coward  hands  drop.  I 
saw  her  welcome  the  terrified  beast  to  the  shelter  of 
her  skirts,  while  with  one  swift  curve  she  plucked 
out  the  hissing  red  stick  and  hurled  it  with  admirable 
certainty  of  aim  straight  at  the  pursuers.  As  they 
scampered  away,  she  told  them  what  she  thought  of 
54 


THE    REAL    THING 

them.  Before  they  could  rally,  Harland  came  to  the 
rescue  with  the  carriage;  and  Tina  pushed  both  of 
us  into  it.  It  was  one  of  those  double  phaetons 
which  we  all  used  to  have  then.  I  don't  know 
whether  Tina's  mercy  would  have  included  the  dog ; 
but  he  included  himself  with  a  flying  leap  into  Nan- 
nie's lap." 

"And  that  was  how  you  met  Nancy?"  said  Mrs. 
Clymer.  "You  took  her  home,  didn't  you,  and  found 
her  conversation  on  the  way  very  entertaining?" 

"Entrancing.  She  was  full  of  thrilling  knowledge 
of  the  world.  She  went  to  school  all  alone.  Her 
father  was  a  carpenter,  and  she  had  a  hatchet  and  a 
plane  and  a  brace  and  bit  all  her  very  own.  Her 
mother  was  dead,  but  she  lived  with  her  aunty,  and 
she  invited  us  most  politely  to  get  out  and  see  her 
aunty,  and  her  papa's  shop  in  the  back  yard.  'We  got 
a  lovely  home,'  said  Nannie." 

"Was  it?"  laughed  the  youngest  clubwoman. 

"I  thought  it  was ;  and,  yes,  I  think  it  was,  now. 
So  specklessly,  radiantly  tidy.  A  tiny  house  of 
wood,  but  painted  freshly  in  gray  and  white,  and 
with  a  most  wonderful  garden.  That  belonged  to 
Nannie's  aunt.  Nannie  said  she  could  make  any- 
55 


STORIES    THAT   END   WELL 

thing  with  a  root  grow.  I  remember  she  was  out 
amid  the  phlox — such  brilliant,  luxuriant  phlox  as  it 
was !  She  had  on  a  white  apron,  which  the  sun  made 
dazzling.  By  a  wonderful  coincidence,  the  aunt 
went  to  Tina's  church,  and  Tina  knew  her;  so  Tina 
let  me  go  inside  the  house,  and  the  aunt  gave  us 
coffee  hot  from  the  stove,  and  delicious  little  spice 
cakes  just  out  of  the  oven ;  and  we  carried  out  some 
to  Harland ;  and  it  was  a  full  half-hour  before  Tina's 
conscience  stirred,  and  we  had  to  go.  By  that  time 
Nannie  and  I  were  very  well  acquainted.  Yet  I  had 
always  been  amazingly  slow  about  making  friends. 

"After  this  episode  Nannie  and  I  always  nodded 
and  grinned  when  we  saw  each  other,  going  or  com- 
ing from  school.  The  next  month  Nannie  appeared 
at  our  Sunday  school  and  announced  that  she  would 
always  attend  there  if  she  might  be  in  Miss  Brown- 
ing's class.  Miss  Browning  taught  my  class.  Fancy 
my  happiness !  It  impressed  me  very  much  the  way 
Nannie  could  make  people  do  what  she  wanted.  In 
summer  another  wonder  happened.  Nannie's  father 
built  our  new  stable.  Nannie  used  to  bring  him  his 
luncheon  daily.  Before  the  summer  ended  we  were 
great  chums." 

56 


THE    REAL    THING 

"But  did  your  mother  approve  of  your  intimacy?" 
asked  Mrs.  Waite,  who  was  bewildered  by  conduct 
so  opposed  to  her  recollections  of  the  Ridgelys. 

"My  mother  was  a  wise  woman.  One  day  she  sent 
me  away  on  some  pretext,  and  she  asked  Nannie  into 
the  house  and  showed  her  pictures  and  talked  to  her. 
Nannie  adored  my  mother ;  and  mamma  never  threw 
any  obstacles  in  the  way  of  my  seeing  Nannie,  while 
Tina  was  always  willing  to  take  me  to  the  Marshes ; 
of  course  I  never  went  alone.  Tina  thought  Nannie 
one  of  the  nicest  little  girls  in  town;  and  she  had 
sense  enough  to  see  that  while  I  was  most  often  list- 
less and  shy  with  other  girls,  I  was  always  happy 
with  Nannie.  I  don't  think  I  can  quite  express  her 
charm.  She  was  clever,  but  clever  people  have  bored 
me.  She  was  pretty,  too ;  and  she  was  a  true,  delicate- 
minded  little  gentlewoman,  though  her  father  was 
a  mechanic  and  her  aunt  helped  the  family  income  by 
taking  in  fine  washing;  but  it  was  none  of  those 
things.  I  think  it  was  that  she  was  so  wholesome! 
Always  cheerful.  Always  fearless.  By  consequence 
she  was  the  most  absolutely  truthful  being  I  ever 
knew.  Aunt  Kate" — to  Mrs.  Clymer — "you  heard 
about  the  red  paint?  Shall  I  tell  them?"  At  Mrs. 
57 


STORIES   THAT   END   .WELL 

Clymer's  assent  she  continued,  "It  was  a  truly  ter- 
rible experience.  I  was  never  so  scared  in  my  life; 
and  I  was  always  getting  scared  when  I  was  little. 
Nannie's  next-door  neighbor  was  a  little  girl  named 
Elsa  Clarke,  whose  father  was  a  painter  by  trade. 
He  was  an  easy-tempered  man,  and  sometimes  used 
to  let  us  paint.  If  we  daubed  ourselves  (which  we 
seldom  failed  to  do),  he  would  scrub  us  off  with 
turpentine.  I  had  some  painful  scenes  with  Tina ; 
for  even  if  the  paint  was  gone,  the  scent  of  roses,  you 
know.  She  was  going  to  put  a  ban  on  the  whole 
business,  when  Nannie  contrived  some  oilcloth 
aprons  out  of  a  discarded  table  covering.  This  ap- 
peased her.  One  day  Elsa's  father  gave  us  the  dregs 
of  a  can  of  red  paint.  Another  painter  who  was  do- 
ing some  work  in  the  shop  glowered  at  him,  and 
from  him  to  a  white  window  sash  that  he  had  just 
finished.  He  was  a  very  gruff  old  fellow,  of  whom  I 
stood  in  dreadful  fear.  I  thought  he  was  very  much 
such  a  looking  man  as  the  ogre  in  'Jac^  a"d  the 
Beanstalk.'  'Them  kids  will  mess  up  something  if 
you  give  'em  paint,  you'll  see,'  the  ogre  growled, 
'but  they  better  keep  clear  of  my  sash,  if  they  know 
what's  good  for  'em!'  With  that  he  followed  Elsa's 

58 


THE    REAL    THING 

father  out  of  the  shop.  We  were  left  with  our 
artistic  fury.  I  don't  know  exactly  how  the  calamity 
came  about,  but  Elsa  wanted  the  paint  can  which 
Nannie  was  using.  If  Elsa  wanted  anything  and 
didn't  get  it,  she  grew  angry.  It  was  her  papa's  shop 
and  her  papa's  paint  and  she  had  a  right  to  have  it, 
she  would  have  it !  'But  he  gave  it  to  us  all,'  I  pro- 
tested, rather  shocked  at  the  squabble.  Nannie  didn't 
say  anything;  she  went  on  slapping  the  paint  on  a 
box  in  vast  content.  Then  Elsa  flew  into  a  rage  and 
laid  hold  of  Nannie.  I  laid  hold  of  her.  And  a  dog 
in  the  household,  hearing  our  loud  voices,  bounded 
joyously  into  the  fray.  And  somehow  Nannie 
tripped !  The  paint,  the  red,  red  paint  made  a  ghastly 
cascade  over  the  snowy  whiteness  of  the  ogre's  win- 
dow frame.  Stupefied  by  the  enormity  of  our  mis- 
hap, we  stood  staring  miserably  at  each  other.  Elsa 
burst  into  tears.  As  for  me,  I  could  hear  my  heart 
thump. 

"  'He's  coming  back,'  gasped  Elsa,  'and  papa  ain't^J 
with  him.  I  saw  him  box  a  little  girl's  ears  once  jest 
for  using  his  brush — let's  run!  Let's  run!  He'll 
think  it  was  Jumper!'  (Jumper  was  wagging  his 
tail  and  affectionately  sympathizing.) 
59 


STORIES    THAT    END   WELL 

"  'Jumper  didn't  do  it,'  said  Nannie. 

"But  Elsa  was  sprinting  across  the  yard.  My 
own  terror  seemed  to  clutch  me  and  propel  me  with- 
out volition;  I  was  outside  and  hurrying  after  Elsa 
before  I  realized.  But  at  the  sound  of  a  dreadful, 
menacing  voice  I  turned  my  head.  Nannie  had  not 
fled.  She  was  facing  the  brutal  man  who  had  boxed 
a  little  girl's  ears ;  and  he  was  demanding  who  had 
done  That!  The  rumble  of  thunder  was  in  his  deep 
tones.  I  ran  back;  but  I  was  in  such  a  panic  I  had 
to  hold  on  to  the  bench  to  keep  me  on  my  feet.  Elsa, 
from  the  fortress  of  her  kitchen,  screamed  that  Jum- 
per had  done  it. 

"  'Hay  ?'  exploded  the  man.  It  seemed  to  me  an 
appalling  interjection. 

'  'Jumper  didn't  do  it,'  said  Nannie.  'I  fell  and 
the  paint  splashed.  I'll  paint  it  over  for  you,  all 
right.' 

"  'You!'  the  ogre  bellowed,  lifting  his  fist  in  a  pas- 
sion. 'You've  done  enough  mischief!'  I  had  been 
trying  to  speak,  but  I  was  so  scared  that  my  mouth 
only  made  little  choking  sounds,  but  now  I  did  sob, 
'Please,  mister,  we  made  her  do  it,  Elsa  and  I.  Elsa 
caught  her  arm  and  I  caught  Elsa's  arm —  I'll  pay 
60 


THE    REAL    THING 

you  for  it !'  I  had  my  little  purse  out  in  my  trem- 
bling fingers  and  would  have  given  it  all  to  him. 
Not  Nannie.  'It  can't  take  you  an  hour  to  paint  it 
over,'  said  she.  'Will  you  take  twenty-five  cents — 
that's  an  hour's  wages — and  let  me  paint  it?  I'm 
awful  sorry  it  happened.' 

"  'I've  a  mind  to  lick  you  both,'  grumbled  the  man. 

"But  Nannie  didn't  flinch;  she  looked  into  his 
face,  repeating,  'We're  awful  sorry;  and  we'll  pay 
you.  It  wouldn't  do  any  good  to  spank  us ;  and  I'll 
paint  something  else  first,  to  show  you  I  won't  daub 
the  glass.' 

"  'Well,  you  are  a  cool  one,'  said  the  man.  I  could 
hardly  believe  my  eyes;  he  was  grinning.  Actually 
he  did  let  Nannie  show  him  how  neatly  she  painted ; 
and  the  end  of  it  was,  he  taught  us  a  great  deal 
about  painting." 

"Didn't  Nannie  think  you  were  plucky  to  run 
back?"  said  the  Southerner.  "Truly,  Mrs.  Curtis, 
I  think  you  were  braver  than  she !" 

Mrs.  Curtis  shook  her  head.  "I  couldn't  have 
done  it  but  for  Nannie.  Merely  being  in  her  pres- 
ence stiffened  my  limp  courage.  I  was  absurdly 
timid." 

61 


STORIES   THAT   END   .WELL 

"Well,  I  don't  wonder  you  were  fond  of  her," 
cried  the  youngest  member.  "What  were  her  peo- 
ple like?" 

"Her  mother  was  dead  and  she  was  an  only  child. 
Her  father  was  the  kindest,  gentlest  of  men,  with  a 
placid  shrewdness  such  as  one  may  draw  from  life 
rather  than  books.  He  loved  beautiful  things.  Why, 
he  taught  me  more  about  the  loveliness  of  shadows 
and  trees  than  the  great  artists,  since.  And  I  recog- 
'nize  now  how  fine  was  his  passion  for  what  he  called 
in  his  homely  way  'a  job  good  enough  not  to  need 
putty.'  " 

"I  remember  Marsh  well,"  said  Mrs.  Clymer.  "He 
was  a  wonderful  workman  and  a  particularly  consid- 
erate person  to  have  about.  He  always  cleaned  up 
his  shavings.  I  never  saw  the  aunt.  She  was  a  nice 
sort,  too,  wasn't  she,  Connie  ?" 

"Indeed  she  was!  She  was  a  widow  with  three 
children.  The  youngest,  as  Nannie  told  me  with 
somber  importance,  was  'bedrid' ;  she  hadn't  walked 
for  three  years,  and  the  doctor  said  she  'never  would 
walk  in  this  world' ;  but  Mr.  Marsh  had  made  her  a 
most  ingenious  wheeled  chair,  which  was  always  at 
the  window,  with  her  little  pale,  smiling  face  above 
62 


THE    REAL    THING 

it.  Then  there  was  little  Ned,  who  was  four,  and 
Oscar,  who  was  working  his  way  through  college. 
They  all  spoke  of  Oscar  with  deep  respect.  He  was 
awfully  clever,  I  was  sure;  and  his  mother  had  a 
handsome  photograph  of  him  on  the  mantel,  under 
his  father's  picture." 

"That  was  Jedidiah  Marsh,"  explained  Mrs. 
Waite.  "I  remember  him.  He  was  a  very  hand- 
some man  and  a  plumber.  He  wasn't  very  much  of 
a  plumber  as  I  recall  him;  but  he  was  an  inventor 
always  going  to  patent  something,  which  always 
turned  out  to  have  been  discovered  before.  Finally 
he  did  put  some  machine  on  the  market,  and  died 
leaving  the  business  in  a  tangle,  and  lots  of  debts, 
which  his  widow  and  Caleb  Marsh  paid  off  to  the 
last  cent  of  interest,  although  it  took  them  years  to 
do  it." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Clymer;  "he  told  Mr.  Clymer 
once  that  maybe  he  wasn't  legally  liable  for  Jed's 
debts,  but  there  never  was  a  Marsh  yet  that  anybody 
could  find  fault  with  for  doing  anything  dishonest ; 
and  they  shouldn't  begin  with  Jed,  who  was  all  right, 
whether  his  washing  machine  was  or  wasn't.  I  have 
a  sneaking  idea  myself  that  Caleb  Marsh,  who  was 
63 


STORIES   THAT   END   WELL 

shrewd  in  his  simple  way,  did  not  take  Jed's  wonder- 
ful genius  seriously;  but  Jed's  wife  did.  Once  I 
carried  Nannie  home  when  she  had  been  to  see  you, 
Connie ;  and  I  remember  their  neat  little  parlor,  with 
the  pictures  of  Lincoln  and  Grant  and  the  Rogers 
groups  and  some  really  fine,  simple  furniture  which 
Marsh  had  made  himself.  But  I  remember  best 
the  two  portraits  over  the  mantel — a  pretty  girl  I 
should  have  known  was  Nannie's  mother,  only  an 
enlarged  photograph,  but  very  well  done,  and  an  oil 
portrait  of  Jedidiah,  which  had  been  done  from  a 
photograph  by  the  gifted  daughter  of  a  neighbor, 
who  was  learning  to  paint.  It  was  pretty  awful.  I 
wonder  didn't  Caleb  Marsh  think  so,  too." 

"If  he  did,  he  never  said  so,  you  may  be  sure," 
said  Mrs.  Curtis  quickly ;  "and  somehow  I  have  a 
kind  of  affection  for  that  picture,  too.  There  were 
always  flowers  before  both  of  the  portraits;  per- 
haps in  winter  no  more  than  some  sprigs  of  lemon 
verbena  or  a  pot  of  ivy,  but  always  some  green 
thing.  Do  you  know,  the  pictures,  and  the  flowers 
always  before  them,  that  little  touch  of  faithful  love, 
added  an  intangible  and  plaintive  charm  to  the 
homely  attraction  of  the  house.  I  did  love  that  room. 
64 


THE    REAL   THING 

It  was  so  sunny,  so  spotless  and  peaceful,  with  the 
geraniums  and  the  heliotrope  in  the  window,  and  the 
white  muslin  curtains.  There  was  a  rug  with  a  very 
bright  and  fierce-looking  tiger  on  it  before  the  fire- 
place (Mr.  Marsh  would  have  a  fireplace),  and  Mr. 
Marsh's  grandmother's  andirons  glittered  behind  the 
big  peacock  fan  in  summer  time ;  and  there  used  to 
float  in  through  the  window  the  lovely  faint  odors 
of  old-fashioned  flowers — spice  pinks  and  sweetbrier 
roses  and  lemon  verbenas." 

Mrs.  Clymer  sighed.    "I  wish  there  were  a  better 
ending  to  the  story." 

"Does  it  end  sadly?"  asked  the  Southerner.    "Did 
the  little  girls  grow  up  and  forget  each  other?" 

Mrs.  Curtis,  who  was  looking  absently  over  the 
lawn  and  the  flowers,  down  the  shady  street,  on 
which  longer  and  warmer  shadows  were  creeping, 
back  perhaps  in  a  reverie  of  her  childhood,  started 
a  little ;  the  sensitive  blush  which  years  in  the  world 
had  not  given  her  power  to  control,  mantled  her  fair 
cheek;  she  turned  and  gave  the  Southerner's  light 
smile  a  serious,  almost  solemn  gaze.  When  she 
spoke  it  was  with  a  gentle  coldness,  as  if  she  felt  she 
65 


STORIES   THAT    END    WELL 

had  been  too  frank  with  strangers — at  least  so  the 
hostess  interpreted  it. 

"/  didn't  forget;  and  we  were  not  separated  for 
several  years.  I  went  to  the  high  school  with  Nan- 
nie ;  it  was  really  I  who  went,  for  my  entreaties  over- 
came my  mother's  aversion  to  the  clamorous  life  of 
a  public  school.  We  were  so  happy ;  and  when  I  had 
the  trouble  with  my  eyes,  Nannie  used  to  read  my 
lessons  to  me.  She  learned  a  whole  different  course 
so  she  could  help  me.  You  see,  she  was  awfully 
clever.  The  more  I  knew  of  other  girls,  the  finer 
Nannie  seemed  to  me.  The — the  difference  between 
the  classes,  the  real  thing  which  keeps  them  apart,  is 
their  lack  of  a  common  ground  of  experience.  They 
haven't  anything  to  talk  about.  I  should  have  been 
as  shy  with  another  girl  who  worked  for  her  living 
as  she  would  have  been  with  me,  but  I  knew  Nannie 
so  well — I  never  knew  any  other  woman  friend  so 
well,  and  only  one  man." 

"Whom  you  married?"  said  the  Southerner  with 
an  apologetic  accent. 

"Yes,  poor  dear,"  laughed  Mrs.  Curtis.  "It  wasn't 
treating  him  well,  perhaps,  but  he  brought  it  on  him- 
self." 

66 


THE    REAL   THING 

"Did  you  go  through  the  high  school  with  your 
friend?"  Mrs.  Waite's  deep  voice  was  heard  again. 
"But  no,  surely  you  weren't  a  graduate  ?" 

"No;  we  went  to  Europe  in  my  second  year.  I 
cried  myself  ill  when  we  parted.  My  only  comfort 
was  that  Nannie  and  I  had  promised  each  other  that 
we  would  go  to  college  together.  Nannie  was  al- 
ready earning  money  by  her  carving.  Still — it  was 
bitter.  Youth  can  suffer  so  easily  and  so  horribly!" 

"Yet,"  said  Mrs.  Clymer,  "though  I  admit  you 
were  a  woeful  object,  Connie,  I  thought  at  the  time, 
and  I  think  now,  that  Nannie  suffered  the  most.  She 
didn't  shed  a  tear  that  morning  when  she  came  up 
to  your  house  to  say  good-by ;  and  I  went  with  you 
to  the  depot ;  but  there  was  a  look  in  her  eyes  which 
haunted  me.  And  when  she  stood  in  the  driveway 
as  we  rolled  away,  watching  the  carriage,  and  you 
turned  and  she  waved  her  hand  and  smiled — I  felt 
as  if  I  had  seen  a  surgical  operation." 

"And  then?  Oh,  Mrs.  Curtis,  that  wasn't  the  end 
of  it  ?"  cried  the  youngest  member. 

"Oh,  no.  I  missed  Nannie  amid  all  the  change 
and  excitement ;  and  I  wrote  her  often.  At  first  she 
wrote  me  as  often.  Now  I  can  appreciate  how  hard 


STORIES   THAT    END   WELL 

she  must  have  tried  to  collect  the  little  items  of  news 
likely  to  interest  me.  And  they  were  all  about  girls 
whom  she  barely  knew,  and  things  remote  from  her. 
Somehow  she  found  out  about  everything.  It  was 
she  who  first  wrote  about  when  Annie  Baylor  had 
scarlet  fever,  and  she  who  told  first  of  that  astound- 
ing happening,  Mary  Taine  Willis'  engagement. 
Mary  was  only  three  years  older  than  we ;  it  was 
almost  like  one  of  us  being  engaged.  And  her  re- 
ports about  the  house  and  the  grounds  and  the 
horses,  my  father  said,  were  clearer  and  more  useful 
than  those  of  the  man  in  charge.  But  somehow  dur- 
ing the  last  year  the  letters  grew  a  little  less  open- 
hearted  and  affectionate;  a  queer  film  of  constraint 
froze  over  them,  if  I  may  call  it  that.  And  on  my 
part  I  was  conscious  of  a  mingling  of  dread  in  my 
delight  at  the  prospect  of  seeing  Nannie  when  we  had 
come.  I  knew  she  would  be  the  same  faithful,  dear 
girl  whom  I  should  always  love;  but  my  Nannie  was 
more — she  was  the  leader,  she  had  charm ;  I  admired 
her  so  tremendously,  I  wondered  should  I  admire 
her  in  the  same  way.  Maybe  you  think  that  was 
horrid  of  me?" 

"I  don't  know" — the  Southern  woman  spoke  be- 
68 


THE   REAL   THING 

fore  the  others — "I  know  it  was  natural.  Well,  did 
you  find  it  different  ?  Had  she  changed  ?" 

"I  don't  remember;  I  only  remember  that,  in  the 
first  half-hour,  my  only  fear  was  lest  she  should  be 
disappointed  in  me.  I  admired  everything  about 
her;  her  very  clothes  were  so  dainty;  and  I  had  ex- 
pected to  be  superior  there,  I  fancy.  But  it  wasn't 
that;  it  was  my  feeling  that  she  was  finer  and 
stronger  than  my  other  friends.  You  know  the 
pretty  clothes,  the  pretty  manners,  are  only  signs  of 
the  real  thing ;  and  Nannie  had  the  real  thing,  I  was 
sure.  But  there  was  always  that  constraint  about 
her.  You  would  not  believe,"  said  Mrs.  Curtis  gent- 
ly to  the  Southerner,  "you  would  not  believe  how  ab- 
surdly this  intangible  reserve  of  hers  hurt  me." 

"I  think  it  was  very  nasty  of  her,  myself,"  laughed 
the  Southerner;  "but  did  it  never  occur  to  you  that 
some  other  friend  of  yours  might  have  been  making 
mischief?  You  were  a  very  desirable  chum,  some 
one  might  have  filled  your  friend's  head  with  notions 
of  how  different  were  your  classes  and  walks  in  life; 
and  how!  you  were  too  loyal  and  kind  hearted  to 
desert  or  repel  an  old  friend,  but  you  might  find  such 
ties  a  drag  on  you.  If  that  happened  she  would  be  a 
69 


STORIES   THAT    END   WELL 

little  morbid  about  making  advances.    She  was  prob- 
ably proud  in  her  own  way." 

"There  was  Elsa  Clarke,"  Mrs.  Clymer  sug- 
gested ;  "she  was  always  trying  to  be  intimate  with 
you ;  and  if  ever  there  was  a  sly  little  climber,  it  was 
she." 

"Wait  a  minute!"  exclaimed  the  hostess.  "I  am 
beginning  to  reminisce,  myself.  Wasn't  there  a  boy 
in  the  Marsh  family,  Nannie  Marsh's  brother  or 
cousin  ?  Yes,  her  cousin,  Oscar.  Why,  to  be  sure. 
He  came  back  from  college  and  was  a  clerk  in  Nor- 
ris  Blanchard's  store,  and  fell  madly  in  love  with 
Gladys  Blanchard.  She  treated  him  abominably, 
they  did  say.  Led  him  on,  and  then  married  that 
young  man  from  Massachusetts;  and  Oscar  shot 
himself  in  the  front  yard  while  they  were  standing 
up  under  the  floral  bell." 

"How  ghastly,"  murmured  the  youngest  member, 
"to  kill  himself—" 

"Oh,  it  didn't  kill  him,  though  they  thought  he 
would  die.  I  don't  know  but  his  uncle  wondered 
sometimes  if  it  wouldn't  have  been  better.  For  after 
he  got  up  he  took  to  drink  and  notions — wild,  an- 
archistic, socialistic — " 

70 


THE    REAL    THING 

"He  couldn't  take  to  them  both  at  the  same  time," 
Mrs.  Waite  interrupted  with  fervor.  "They  are  ab- 
solutely antagonistic,  socialism — " 

"Yes,  yes,  to  be  sure" — the  hostess  hastily  turned 
a  conversational  switch  before  the  collision — "of 
course  I  didn't  mean  to  say  he  believed  in  both,  only 
that  he  took  to  making  fierce  speeches  at  the  populist 
meetings,  and  wrote  articles  for  the  papers,  girding 
at  the  rich.  And  he  used  to  get  drunk.  The  poor 
Marshes  felt  awfully.  I  shouldn't  be  a  bit  surprised 
if  that  was  what  made  Nannie  a  little  shy  and  stiff. 
Did  she  tell  you  about  Oscar's  tragedy?" 

"Not  until  I  found  it  out  myself.  I  somehow  had 
the  feeling  that  I  wasn't  so  gladly  welcomed  as  I 
used  to  be.  And  Mrs.  Marsh  was  changed  and  sad- 
dened. But  the  little  chair  was  no  longer  by  the 
window ;  and  I  knew  the  mother  grieved.  Dear  little 
Hattie,  always  so  patient  and  so  pleased  with  every 
little  thing.  One  day  Nannie  was  walking  home 
with  me,  and  we  met  Oscar.  After  that  I  knew.  I 
will  own  up,  when  I  saw  his  condition,  I — I  told  you 
I  was  a  coward — I  simply  turned  and  ran  away.  To 
be  sure,  Nannie  had  seen  him  also,  and  said  sud- 
denly, 'Good-by,  Connie ;  I  can't  go  any  farther' ;  but 
71 


STORIES   THAT   END   .WELL 

that  is  only  a  mitigation,  not  an  excuse.  I  was  so 
ashamed  of  myself  I  hardly  slept  all  night.  Nannie 
was  coming  to  see  me  the  next  afternoon.  I  was 
awfully  afraid  she  wouldn't  come,  and  almost  as 
afraid  to  see  her  when  she  did  come.  And  when  she 
began  to  talk,  I  couldn't  think  of  anything  better 
than  to  kiss  her,  with  my  eyes  shut — as  if  I  were 
going  to  have  a  tooth  pulled!  We  both  cried.  It 
gave  me  a  weird,  earthquaky  sensation  to  see  Nannie 
cry.  I  had  never,  through  all  our  years  of  intimacy, 
'seen  her  cry.  But  almost  immediately  she  pulled 
herself  together,  and  said,  'Well,  I'm  not  going  to 
stand  it.  Daddy  has  found  a  place  in  the  country 
where  Oscar  can  go  and  learn  the  business  and  then 
be  a  partner.  If  he  has  a  little  property  of  his  own 
he  will  stop  wanting  to  overturn  things  so  bad.  So 
— he's  going ;  and  he  did  seem  to  feel  bad  about  mak- 
ing aunty  so  wretched ;  and  he's  promised  to  give  up 
drinking  and  talking;  so  I  don't  know  what  I'm  cry- 
ing about,  unless  it  is  having  to  give  up  going  to  col- 
lege with  you !  But  it's  only  putting  it  off  for  a  year. 
I'll  make  it  all  back  by  then ;  I'm  going  into  the  furni- 
ture factory  this  summer.'  But  when  I  saw  the  fam- 
ily I  realized  for  the  first  time  what  this  education, 
72 


THE    REAL   THING 

which  we  take  so  lightly,  indeed  often  with  weari- 
ness, means  to  those  who  have  to  deny  themselves 
for  it.  The  love  of  it  was  a  passion  with  Nannie's 
people.  They  seemed  to  think  a  college  was  a  won- 
derful place,  where  one  learned  all  the  secrets  of  life 
and  art  and  knowledge.  When  they  spoke  of  it  their 
voices  would  drop  reverentially,  as  they  dropped 
when  they  spoke  of  heaven.  To  have  this  glory  for 
Nannie  put  off  another  year  seemed  cruel  to  them. 
'Well,'  I  suggested  to  Mr.  Marsh,  'at  least  it  will  be 
I  who  will  have  to  miss  her,  and  not  you.'  'It's 
wicked  to  take  such  comfort,'  said  he,  'but  I  guess  I 
can't  help  taking  it  a  mite.  Nannie  is  so  very  com- 
forting and  pleasant  to  have  around.' " 

"He  certainly  was  a  nice  man,"  said  Mrs.  Clymer. 
"Do  you  remember  him  beaming  at  Nannie's  grad- 
uation ?  I  thought  I  should  be  bored,  but  I  wasn't ; 
and  you,  my  dear,  were  a  little  drama  of  delight  by 
yourself,  so  scared  when  she  began,  and  so  radiant 
presently;  and  darting  such  furious  glances  at  Elsa 
Clarke." 

"Well,"  retorted  Mrs.  Curtis,  "wasn't  she  whis- 
pering all  through  the  essay  to  a  boy  she  had  with 
her !  But  she  was  on  the  stage  afterward,  before  any 
73 


STORIES   THAT    END   WELL 

of  us,  and  she  had  sent  Nannie  a  most  impressive 
and  expensive  bouquet ;  and  she  was  hugging  her  and 
making  joyful  noise  over  her  when  my  father  and  I 
came  up.  Father  paid  her  the  prettiest  of  compli- 
ments and  called  her  Miss  Nannie.  Her  own  father 
and  her  aunt  and  Ned  stood  by,  with  Oscar,  who  had 
come  in  from  the  country  for  this  important  occa- 
sion. Mr.  Marsh  did  not  say  a  word.  But  I  never 
knew  before  how  many  different  kinds  of  smiles  a 
man  could  smile.  And  somehow,  after  that  evening, 
although  Nannie  was  so  little  affected  by  the  glamour 
of  it  all,  I  was  provoked  with  her;  somehow,  she  was 
more  like  her  old  gay  self  with  me.  Why  do  you 
suppose,  Mrs.  Atherton?" 

"I  suppose,"  ventured  the  Southerner,  smiling, 
"because  she  felt  that  her  little  triumph  (no  doubt 
she  overvalued  it,  in  spite  of  the  level  head  you  give 
her) ;  she  felt  it  made  her  a  little  better  worth  your 
friendship.  But — what  happened  next?  You  went 
to  college  ?" 

"Yes,  I  went ;  and  we  had  to  have  that  odious  little 
Elsa  with  us,  because  she  was  going,  too.  I  was 
most  dolefully  homesick ;  and  oh,  how  I  missed  Nan- 
nie! I  wrote  her,  if  I  weren't  so  afraid  of  the  fero- 
74 


THE    REAL   THING 

cious  cabmen  who  roared  so  at  one,  I  should  run 
away,  and  it  was  all  her  fault — " 

"Your  father  did  want — "  Mrs.  Curtis  cut  Mrs. 
Clymer's  sentence  off  with  a  quick  "Ah,  they 
wouldn't  accept;  they  were  quite  as  proud  as  we. 
However,  the  time  dragged  itself  away,  and  I  went 
home  for  the  Christmas  holidays.  I  found  Nannie 
in  very  different  circumstances,  but  quite  as  cheerful. 
She  was  working  in  the  factory,  and  earning  good 
wages,  and  she  had  all  sorts  of  racy  experiences  with 
human  nature  to  relate.  How  the  whole  family 
hung  on  my  college  stories !  And  Oscar  was  doing 
well,  and  becoming  cheerful,  and  they  could  all  talk 
proudly  about  him  again!  They  comforted  me  as 
much  as  my  own  people,  and  I  went  back  with  a 
show  of  courage.  Nannie  wrote  me  every  week.  I 
don't  know  just  when  I  began  to  feel  a  change  in  the 
letters,  not  in  their  affection  or  their  gaiety ;  but  she 
no  longer  told  me  so  much  about  her  studies  ( for  she 
wanted  to  keep  up  with  me  and  enter  in  the  second 
year)  ;  after  a  while  she  hardly  mentioned  them ;  yet 
she  had  shown  the  keenest  interest.  My  people  came 
on  east  for  me  that  summer,  and  as  we  made  sev- 
eral visits,  it  was  late  in  the  summer  when  we  came 
75 


STORIES   THAT   END    WELL 

home.  Although  I  had  noticed  this  change  in  Nan- 
nie's letters,  I  had  not  dreamed  what  it  really  meant ; 
and  I  was  not  prepared  for  the  shock  I  received. 
She  greeted  me  with  all  her  old  affection ;  but  at  my 
first  inquiry  about  her  savings,  she  answered,  'Yes, 
I  have  enough — if  I  go.'  'If!'  I  cried.  'Don't  be 
talking  of  if's!'  'Indeed,  I  ought  not,'  she  answered 
very  gravely,  'for  there  is  no  if  about  it ;  I  know  that 
I  oughtn't  to  go.  It  isn't  fair  to  the  others.'  'But 
they  want  you  to  go !'  I  pleaded  in  inexpressible  dis- 
may. 'It  will  be  the  awfulest  disappointment!'  It 
seems  to  me  that  I  still  remember  every  word  of  her 
reply.  She  said  that  she  knew  it,  that  her  education 
had  been  the  whole  family's  day  dream.  But  that,  in 
the  first  place,  it  would  be  harder  than  they  would 
admit  for  them  to  have  her  go.  'If  it  were  only  this 
it  would  be  hard,'  she  said,  'but  we  could  bear  it;  but 
— it  isn't.  What  they  couldn't  bear  would  be  to — to 
have  me  grow  away  from  them.  I  couldn't,  truly; 
but — you  know  Elsa  is  at  home  now.  She  talks  of 
nothing  but  her  college,  her  college  friends,  her  high 
marks  at  exams,  her  basketball  team,  and  all  that. 
She  is  always  complaining  of  her  own  people's 
plain  ways.  Connie,  I  can  see  so  plainly  that  when 
76 


THE    REAL   THING 

she  has  finished  the  education  which  her  parents  are 
pinching  themselves  to  give  her  she  will  use  it  to  es- 
tablish herself  as  far  as  possible  from  them.' 

"  'Oh,  Elsa  ?'  I  sniffed.  'I  can  believe  anything  of 
Elsa.  You  couldn't  be  so  horrid  and  snobbish !' 

"  'She  doesn't  mean  to  be  horrid,  or  know  she  is ; 
she  speaks  of  her  mother  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  It 
is  only  that  she  has  gone  into  another  world  from 
•them,  and  wants  to  stay  there.  I  don't  want  to  go 
into  any  other  world  than  my  father's  and  the 
others'.  I  don't  want  any  better  taste  than  they 
have !  I  want  better  taste  and  I  want  them  to  have 
it,  but  I  want  us  all  to  get  it  together.  Whatever  I 
get  I  want  to  share  with  them.  I  couldn't  if  I  went 
away.  I  used  to  think  I  could  bring  it  all  back  in  a 
lump ;  but  I  know  better  now.  You  can't  pot  culture 
and  give  it  away  as  you  choose ;  you  have  to  grow  it 
from  the  seed.  What  I  am  afraid  of  is  that  they 
should  not  get  what  I  get.  So  far  they  have ;  why, 
aunty  knows  more  of  Virgil  from  hearing  me  trans- 
late aloud  than  I  do  myself ;  and  dad  is  wonderful  in 
geometry,  and  he  has  taught  me  to  love  Charles 
Lamb,  whom  he  loved  just  from  the  extracts  in  the 
literature.  First  he  bought  the  Essays,  then  I  bought 
77 


STORIES   THAT    END   WELL 

him  the  Letters.  It  is  that  way  with  so  many  things. 
You  know' — she  laughed — 'you  know  we  have  some 
long-legged  Fra  Angelico  angels  instead  of  the  pic- 
tures of  Lincoln  and  Grant ;  they  are  in  other  frames, 
which  my  father  made,  and  hang  in  the  hall ;  and  the 
Rogers  groups  have  gone  up-stairs,  and,  Connie, 
Oscar  and  dad  and  I  have  had  a  real  artist  paint  a 
pastel  of  Uncle  Jed  as  a  present  for  aunty,  and  we 
have  it  in  the  parlor  now ;  and  nobody's  feelings  are 
hurt  ;  we  were  all  pleased  together.  That  is  the  right 
way.  I  can't  take  any  other  way.  Not  even  to  be 
with  you,  Connie.  No,  dear,  I  can't  go.'  I  am 
afraid  I  made  it  harder  for  her  with  my  selfish  grief, 
and  her  father  almost  frantically  opposed  the  sacri- 
fice, he  who  was  always  so  tranquil ;  and  Oscar  was 
angry,  and  Ned  cried.  Oh,  we  gave  poor  Nannie 
a  frightful  quarter  of  an  hour;  but  she  did  not  go." 

"What  became  of  her?  How  did  it  turn  out  in 
the  end?"  asked  the  youngest  member. 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  Mrs.  Curtis. 

"Did  her  conduct  make  a  breach  between  you  ?" 
Mrs.  Waite  showed  the  dawn  of  disapproval  on  her 
brow. 

"Surely  not.  But  in  my  next  year  we  went  abroad 
78 


THE    REAL   THING 

unexpectedly,  on  account  of  my  mother's  health. 
We  stayed  four  years ;  and  while  we  were  away,  my 
grandfather  died,  and  the  house  here  was  sold.  At 
first  we  both  wrote  often ;  but,  as  the  years  went  by, 
insensibly  we  wrote  less  often.  Both  of  us,  I  sup- 
pose. That  same  film  of  constraint  was  over  Nan- 
nie's letters  that  had  been  over  her  manner  before. 
Then  it  went  away.  This  time  it  came,  and  did  not 
go  away.  Then  the  letters  ceased  altogether.  When 
I — when  I  found  I  was  going  to  marry  Mr.  Curtis, 
I  wrote  Nannie  the  very  first  letter.  There  was  no 
answer.  I  wrote  again — not  once,  but  many  times. 
After  a  long  while  my  letters  came  back  to  me,  un- 
opened, with  the  post-office  inscription,  'Not  to  be 
found.'  I  wrote  to  Elsa,  who  was  home.  I  asked 
her  for  Nannie's  address ;  for  some  word  about  her. 
She  wrote  back  that  the  Marshes  had  sold  their 
house  after  Oscar's  trouble,  to  raise  money  for  his 
defense ;  and  they  had  all  moved  away,  she  believed, 
to  Dakota,  but  she  didn't  know  where.  She  said 
Nannie  avoided  everybody." 

"And  what  was  Oscar's  trouble?"  demanded  Mrs. 
Waite.    "I  know  there  was  some  iniquitous  blunder 
of  the  law,  but  what  exactly  was  it?" 
79 


STORIES   THAT    END   WELL 

Mrs.  Clymer,  who  had  been  watching  Mrs.  Curtis 
attentively,  explained  while  the  other  woman  seemed 
searching  for  the  right  words.  "Oscar  was  con- 
victed of  burning  the  store  of  a  rival  merchant  who 
had  treated  him  very  treacherously.  He  had  lost  his 
temper,  and  threatened  the  man.  What  he  meant,  he 
explained,  was  to  give  him  a  good  hiding.  But  he 
was  overheard ;  and  when,  that  night,  the  store 
burned,  and  Oscar  was  discovered  to  have  gone 
there,  suspicion  lighted  on  him.  Of  course,  all  his 
former  wild  actions  were  brought  up  against  him, 
although  he  had  quite  reformed.  There  had  been  a 
number  of  incendiary  fires,  and  you  know  how  peo- 
ple always  want  somebody  punished;  poor  Oscar 
Marsh  was  sent  to  the  penitentiary,  after  his  people 
had  spent  almost  their  last  dollar  to  defend  him. 
They  moved  away,  and  all  trace  of  them  was  lost. 
It  is  a  wretched  story.  And  really,  Oscar  was  inno- 
cent. A  year  afterward  (I  always  credited  it  mostly 
to  Nannie)  it  was  discovered  that  the  man  had  set 
fire  to  the  store  himself.  Nannie  got  the  insurance 
company  on  his  trail.  He  fled.  The  governor  par- 
doned Oscar.  And  that  is  all  any  of  us  know." 
80 


THE    REAL   THING 

"It  is  a  sad  story,"  sighed  Mrs.  Waite.  "I  think 
she  did  wrong  not  to  educate  herself." 

"I  think  she  did  quite  right,"  said  Mrs.  Curtis. 

"But  as  it  was,  the  sacrifice  was  so  useless,"  urged 
the  youngest  member.  "She  didn't  lift  them;  they 
only  all  went  under  the  waves  together." 

"Not  necessarily,"  objected  the  Southerner. 
"Why  be  so  dismal  ?  Why  not  be  cheerful  ?  They 
had  their  good  trade  and  their  good  sense  and  their 
love  for  each  other.  I  am  going  to  suppose  that 
those  thingsi  are  more  than  money,  and  that  they 
went  to  work  in  a  new  place,  rose  little  by  little,  and 
then  more  and  more,  and  are  all  prosperous  and  re- 
spected, and  Miss  Nannie  has  married  the  young 
superintendent  of  her  new  factory,  who  has  now 
risen  to  be  the  main  partner ;  he  is  of  an  old  though 
impoverished  family — " 

"You  think  so  much  of  family  in  the  South,  don't 
you?"  interjected  Mrs.  Waite. 

"Well,  we  have  so  many  old  and  good  but  impov- 
erished families  there,  you  see.  I  think  the  chances 
are  she  married  such  a  boy;  and  they  have  made 
money,  and  Oscar  has  a  nice  plantation  near  them, 
and  is  married  to  a  sweet  little  Southern  girl,  and 
81 


STORIES   THAT   END   WELL 

his  mother  adores  the  baby ;  and  Ned  goes  to  college, 
and  Mr.  Marsh  is  a  prosperous  builder,  high  in  the 
Scottish  Rite,  and  growing  used  to  his  dress  coat—" 
"But,"  said  the  hostess,  "you  are  having  them  all 
south ;  they  went  to  Dakota." 

"Why,  so  they  did !  I  forgot,"  cried  the  South- 
erner. "Maybe  it  was  a  mistake ;  and  anyhow,  they 
would  have  done  better  to  go  south !" 

Everybody  laughed  and  Mrs.  Curtis'  fine  eyes  lit 
up.  "I  perceive  you  are  a  psychic,  Mrs.  Atherton," 
she  said  gaily.  "And  they  did  go  south.  Being  a 
psychic,  can't  you  tell  me  something?  Why  didn't 
Nannie  answer  my  letters?" 

The  Southerner  dropped  her  chin  and  looked  up- 
ward in  the  pose  of  a  seer;  no  one  noticed  Mrs. 
Clymer's  sudden  movement  or  the  ripple  of  quick 
emotion  in  Mrs.  Curtis'  face.  "That's  easy,"  she 
responded.  "I  see  a  slim  girl  with  dark  hair  walking 
with  another  girl  who  answers  to  the  name  of  Elsa, 
The  dark-haired  girl  gives  her  a  letter,  stamped,  but 
not  addressed.  She  has  sent  a  letter  to  her  friend, 
which  has  not  reached  her.  Letters  sometimes  do 
not  reach  people  who  are  hurrying  through  Egypt 
or — or  other  places.  This  letter  she  gives  to  Elsa, 
82 


THE    REAL   THING 

who  is  to  marry  the  cousin  of  an  acquaintance  of  the 
friend.     She  is  to  post  it — voila  tout!" 

"She  was  engaged  to  Bertha  Miller's  cousin ;  and 
she  did  try  awfully  hard  to  be  intimate  with  Con- 
stance," whispered  Mrs.  Clymer  in  the  hostess'  ear; 
while  everybody  laughed  again. 

"He  drinks  like  a  fish,"  returned  the  hostess  ir- 
relevantly. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Atherton,  don't  stop,  tell  us  more," 
begged  the  youngest  member.  "I  feel  so  interested 
in  Nannie.  Has  she  any  children?"  The  youngest 
member  had  just  acquired  the  most  remarkable  baby 
in  the  world. 

"I  reckon,"  jested  the  Southerner,  "two  or  three. 
Two  boys,  let  us  say — " 

•  "How  nice !"  cried  Mrs.  Curtis,  coloring  prettily. 
"I  have  two  boys." 

"And — I  think  a  little  girl,  whom  she  has  named 
Constance,  Constance  Ridgely — Are  we  going,  Mrs. 
Clymer?" 

Mrs.  Clymer  laid  a  kindly  hand  on  her  shoulder, 
saying,  "Yes,  my  dear,  I  must  go;  but  as  I  am  stop- 
ping on  my  way,  I  shall  walk;  and  Constance  will 
take  care  of  you." 

83 


STORIES   THAT    END   WELL 

"Thank  you,  Aunt  Kate,"  said  Mrs.  Curtis,  so  low 
the  others — except  the  Southerner — did  not  hear. 
They  were  alone  in  the  carriage  before  she  made  any 
sign  of  that  which  had  stirred  her  profoundly.  Then 
she  turned  on  her  companion  a  pale  face  and  eyes 
that  were  swimming  in  tears. 

"Yes,  dear,"  said  the  Southerner,  whose  lips  were 
smiling,  but  whose  own  eyes  were  wet. 

"Oh — Nannie!"  cried  Constance  Ridgely.  And 
the  faces  of  the  two  women  were  strangely  like  the 
faces  of  the  two  little  girls  who  had  found  each  other 
years  and  years  ago. 


THE  OLD  PARTISAN 

A  STORY  OF  THE  REPUBLICAN  CONVENTION  OF   1896 

1SAT  so  far  back  in  the  gallery  that  my  opinion 
of  my  delegate  friend  dwindled  with  every  ses- 
sion. Nevertheless  my  unimportant  seat  had  its  ad- 
vantages. I  could  see  the  vast  assembly  and  watch 
the  throbbing  of  the  Republican  pulse  if  I  could  not 
hear  its  heart -beats.  Therefore,  perhaps,  I  studied 
my  neighbors  more  than  I  might  study  them  under 
different  circumstances.  The  great  wooden  hall  had 
its  transient  and  unsubstantial  character  stamped  on 
every  bare  wooden  joist  and  unclinched  nail.  It 
was  gaudy  with  flags  and  bunting  and  cheap  por- 
traits. There  were  tin  bannerettes  crookedly  mar- 
shaled on  the  floor,  to  indicate  the  homes  of  the 
different  states.  A  few  delegates,  doubtless  new  to 
the  business  and  over-zealous,  were  already  on  the 
floor,  but  none  of  the  principals  were  visible.  They 
were  perspiring  and  arguing  in  those  committee 
rooms,  those  hotel  lobbies  and  crowded  hotel  rooms 
85 


THE  OLD    PARTISAN 

where  the  real  business  of  the  convention  was  al- 
ready done  and  neatly  prepared  for  presentation  to 
the  nation.  I  had  nothing  to  keep  me  from  study- 
ing my  neighbors.  In  front  of  me  sat  two  people 
who  had  occupied  the  same  seats  at  every  session 
that  I  was  present,  a  young  girl  and  an  old  man. 
The  girl  wore  the  omnipresent  shirt  waist  (of  pretty 
blue  and  white  tints,  with  snowy  cuffs  and  collar), 
and  her  green  straw  hat  was  decked  with  blue  corn- 
flowers, from  which  I  inferred  that  she  had  an  eye 
on  the  fashions.  Her  black  hair  was  thick  and 
glossy  under  the  green  straw.  I  thought  that  she 
had  a  graceful  neck.  It  was  very  white.  Whiter 
than  her  face,  which  kept  a  touch  of  sunburn,  as  if 
she  were  often  out  in  the  open  air.  Somehow  I  con- 
cluded that  she  was  a  shop-girl  and  rode  a  wheel. 
If  I  were  wrong  it  is  not  likely  that  I  shall  ever 
know. 

The  old  man  I  fancied,  was  not  so  old  as  he 
looked ;  his  delicate,  haggard  profile  may  have  owed 
its  sunken  lines  and  the  dim  eye  to  sickness  rather 
than  to  years.  He  wore  the  heavy  black  broadcloth 
of  the  rural  politician,  and  his  coat  sagged  over  his 
narrow  chest  as  if  he  had  left  his  waistcoat  at  home. 
86 


THE  OLD    PARTISAN 

On  his  coat  lapel  were  four  old-fashioned  Elaine 
badges.  Incessantly  he  fanned  himself. 

"It  can't  be  they  ain't  going  to  nominate  him  to- 
day ?"  he  asked  rather  than  asserted,  his  voice  break- 
ing on  the  higher  notes,  the  mere  wreck  of  a  voice. 

"Oh,  maybe  later,"  the  girl  reassured  him. 

"Well,  I  wanted  to  attend  a  Republican  conven- 
tion once  more  before  I  died.  Your  ma  would  have 
it  I  wasn't  strong  enough;  but  I  knew  better;  you 
and  I  knew  better :  didn't  we,  Jenny  ?" 

She  made  no  answer  except  to  pat  his  thin,  ribbed 
brown  hand  with  her  soft,  white,  slim  one ;  but  there 
was  a  world  of  sympathy  in  the  gesture  and  her 
silent  smile. 

"I  wonder  what  your  ma  said  when  she  came 
down-stairs  and  found  the  letter,  and  us  gone,"  he 
cackled  with  the  garrulous  glee  of  a  child  recounting 
successful  mischief;  "made  me  think  of  the  times 
when  you  was  little  and  I  stole  you  away  for  the 
circus.  Once,  your  pa  thought  you  was  lost — 
'member  ?  And  once,  you  had  on  your  school  dress 
and  you'd  tore  it — she  did  scold  you  that  time.  But 
we  had  fun  when  they  used  to  let  me  have  money, 
didn't  we,  Jenny  ?" 

87 


STORIES   THAT    END   WELL 

"Well,  now  I  earn  money,  we  have  good  times, 
too,  grandpa,"  said  Jenny,  smiling  the  same  tender, 
comprehending  smile. 

"We  do  that ;  I  don't  know  what  I  would  do  'cept 
for  you,  Iambic,  and  this  is — this  is  a  grand  time, 
Jenny,  you  look  and  listen ;  it's  a  great  thing  to  see  a 
nation  making  its  principles  and  its  president — and 
such  a  president !" 

He  half  turned  his  head  as  he  spoke,  with  a 
mounting  enthusiasm,  thus  bringing  his  flushing 
face  and  eager  eyes — no  longer  dim — into  the  focus 
of  his  next  neighbor's  bright  gray  eyes.  The  neigh- 
bor was  a  young  man,  not  very  young,  but  hardly  to 
be  called  elderly,  of  an  alert  bearing  and  kindly 
smile. 

"I  think  him  a  pretty  fair  man  myself,"  said  the 
other  with  a  jocose  understatement;  "I  come  from 
his  town." 

What  was  there  in  such  a  simple  statement  to 
bring  a  distinctly  anxious  look  into  the  young  girl's 
soft  eyes?  There  it  was;  one  could  not  mistake  it. 

"Well!"  said  the  old  man:  there  was  a  flattering 
deference  in  his  voice.  "Well,  well.  And— and 
maybe  you've  seen  him  lately?"  The  quavering 
88 


THE  OLD    PARTISAN 

tones  sharpened  with  a  keener  feeling;  it  was  al- 
most as  if  the  man  were  inquiring  for  some  one  on 
whom  he  had  a  great  stake  of  affection.  "How  did 
he  look?  Was  he  better,  stronger?" 

"Oh,  he  looked  elegant,"  said  the  Ohio  man,  eas- 
ily, but  with  a  disconcerted  side  glance  at  the  girl 
whose  eyes  were  imploring  him. 

"I've  been  a  Elaine  man  ever  since  he  was  run  the 
time  Bob  Ingersoll  nominated  him,"  said  the  old 
man,  who  sighed  as  if  relieved.  "I  was  at  that  con- 
vention and  heard  the  speech — " 

"Ah,  that  was  a  speech  to  hear,"  said  a  man  be- 
hind, and  two  or  three  men  edged  their  heads  nearer. 

The  old  Republican  straightened  his  bent  shoul- 
ders, his  winter-stung  features  softened  and  warmed 
at  the  manifestation  of  interest,  his  voice  sank  to 
the  confidential  undertone  of  the  narrator. 

"You're  right,  sir,  right;  it  was  a  magnificent 
speech.  I  can  see  him  jest  as  he  stood  there,  a 
stoutish,  good-looking  man,  smooth-faced,  his  eye 
straight  ahead,  and  an  alternate  that  sat  next  me — I 
was  an  alternate ;  I've  been  an  alternate  four  times ; 
I  could  have  been  a  delegate,  but  I  says,  'No,  abler 
men  than  me  are  wanting  it ;  I'm  willing  to  fight  in 


STORIES   THAT   END    WELL 

the  ranks.'  But  I  wished  I  had  a  vote,  a  free  vote 
that  day,  I  tell  you.  The  alternate  near  me,  he  says, 
'You'll  hear  something  fine  now;  I've  heard  him 
speak.'  " 

"You  did,  too,  I  guess." 

"We  could  hear  from  the  first  minute.  That 
kinder  fixed  our  attention.  He  had  a  mellow,  rich 
kind  of  voice  that  melted  into  our  ears.  We  found 
ourselves  listening  and  liking  him  from  the  first  sen- 
tence. At  first  he  was  as  quiet  as  a  summer  breeze, 
but  presently  he  began  to  warm  up,  and  the  words 
flowed  out  like  a  stream  of  jewels.  It  was  electrify- 
ing :  it  was  thrilling,  sir ;  it  took  us  off  our  feet  be- 
fore we  knew  it,  and  when  he  came  to  the  climax, 
those  of  us  that  weren't  yelling  in  the  aisles  were 
jumping  up  and  down  on  our  chairs!  I  know  I 
found  myself  prancing  up  and  down  on  my  own  hat 
on  a  chair,  swinging  somebody  else's  hat  and 
screaming  at  the  top  of  my  voice,  with  the  tears 
running  down  my  cheeks.  God !  sir,  there  were  men 
there  on  their  feet  cheering  their  throats  out  that 
had  to  vote  against  Elaine  afterward — had  to,  be- 
cause they  were  there  instructed — no  more  free  will 
than  a  checked  trunk!"  The  light  died  out  of  his 
90 


THE  OLD   PARTISAN 

face.  "Yes,  sir,  a  great  speech;  never  so  great  a 
speech,  whoever  made  it;  but  it  did  no  good,  he 
wasn't  nominated,  and  when  we  did  nominate  him 
we  were  cheated  out  of  our  victory.  Well,  we'll 
do  better  this  day." 

"We  will  that,"  said  the  other  man,  heartily; 
"McKinley— " 

"You'll  excuse  me" — the  old  man  struck  in  with 
a  deprecating  air,  yet  under  the  apology  something 
fiercely  eager  and  anxious  that  glued  the  hearer's 
eyes  to  his  quivering  old  face — "You'll  excuse  me. 
I — I  am  a  considerable  of  an  invalid  and  I  don't 
keep  the  run  of  things  as  I  used  to.  You  see,  I  live 
with  my  daughter,  and  you  know  how  women  folks 
are,  fretting  lest  things  should  make  you  sick,  and 
my  girl  she  worries  so,  me  reading  the  papers.  Fact 
is  I  got  a  shock  once,  an  awful  shock" — he  shivered 
involuntarily  and  his  dim  eyes  clouded — "and  it 
worried  her  seeing  me  read.  Hadn't  ought  to;  it 
don't  worry  Jenny  here,  who  often  gets  me  a  paper, 
quiet  like ;  but  you  know  how  it  is  with  women — it's 
easier  giving  them  their  head  a  little — and  so  I  don't 
see  many  papers,  and  I  kinder  dropped  off.  It  seems 
queer,  but  I  don't  exactly  sense  it  about  this  Mo 


STORIES   THAT   END   .WELL 
Kinley.     Is  he  running  against  Elaine  or  jest  for 


vice : 


The  girl,  under  some  feminine  pretext  of  drop- 
ping and  reaching  for  her  handkerchief,  threw 
upward  a  glance  of  appeal  at  the  interlocutor.  Hur- 
riedly she  stepped  into  the  conversation.  "My 
grandfather  read  a  false  report  about — about  Mr. 
Elaine's  sickness,  and  he  was  not  well  at  the  time, 
and  it  brought  on  a  bad  attack." 

"I  understand,"  said  the  listener,  with  a  grave  nod 
of  his  head  and  movement  of  his  eyes  in  the  girl's 
direction. 

"But  about  McKinley?"  the  old  man  persisted. 

"He's  for  vice-president,"  the  girl  announced,  her 
eyes  fixed  on  the  hesitating  man  from  Canton.  I 
have  often  admired  the  intrepid  fashion  in  which  a 
woman  will  put  her  conscience  at  a  moral  hedge, 
while  a  man  of  no  finer  spiritual  fiber  will  be  strain- 
ing his  eyes  to  find  a  hole  through  which  he  can 
crawl. 

"McKinley  is  not  opposed  to  Elaine,  is  he?"  she 
asked  the  man. 

"The  Republican  party  has  no  name  that  is  more 
loved  than  that  of  James  G.  Elaine,"  said  the  man, 
gravely. 

92 


THE  OLD    PARTISAN 

"That's  so,  that's  so!"  the  old  partisan  assented 
eagerly;  "to  my  mind  he's  the  logical  candidate." 

The  Canton  man  nodded,  and  asked  if  he  had 
ever  seen  Elaine. 

"Once,  only  once.  I  was  on  a  delegation  sent  to 
wait  on  him  and  ask  him  to  our  town  to  speak — he 
was  in  Cincinnati.  I  held  out  my  hand  when  my 
turn  came,  and  the  chairman  nearly  knocked  the 
breath  out  of  me  by  saying,  'Here's  the  man  gave 
more  to  our  campaign  fund  and  worked  harder  than 
any  man  in  the  county,  and  we  all  worked  hard  for 
you,  too.'  Well,  Mr.  Elaine  looked  at  me.  You 
know  the  intent  way  he  looks.  He  has  the  most 
wonderful  eyes ;  look  right  at  you  and  seem  to  bore 
into  you  like  a  gimlet  I  felt  as  if  he  was  looking 
right  down  into  my  soul,  and  I  tell  you  I  was  glad, 
for  I  choked  up  so  I  couldn't  find  a  word,  not  a 
word,  and  I  was  ready  and  fluent  enough  in  those 
days,  too,  I  can  tell  you ;  but  I  stood  there  filling  up, 
and  squeezed  his  hand  and  gulped  and  got  red,  like 
a  fool.  But  he  understood.  'I  have  heard  of  your 
loyalty  to  Republican  principles,  Mr.  Painter,'  says 
he,  in  that  beautiful  voice  of  his  that  was  like  a 
violin;  and  I  burst  in — I  couldn't  help  it — 'It  ain't 
93 


STORIES   THAT   END   WELL 

loyalty  to  Republican  principles,  it's  to  you.'  I  said 
that  right  out.  And  he  smiled,  and  said  he,  'Well, 
that's  wrong,  but  it  isn't  for  me  to  quarrel  with  you 
there,  Mr.  Painter,'  and  then  they  pushed  me  along; 
but  twice  while  the  talk  was  going  on  I  saw  him  look 
my  way  and  caught  his  eye,  and  he  smiled,  and  when 
we  were  all  shaking  hands  for  good-by  he  shook 
hands  with  a  good  firm  grip,  and  said  he,  'Good- 
by,  Mr.  Painter;  I  hope  we  shall  meet  again.'  " 

The  old  man  drew  a  long  sigh.  "Those  few  mo- 
ments paid  for  everything,"  he  said.  "I've  never 
seen  him  since.  I've  been  sick  and  lost  money.  I 
ain't  the  man  I  was.  I  never  shall  be  put  on  any 
delegation  again,  or  be  sent  to  any  convention;  but 
I  thought  if  I  could  only  go  once  more  to  a  Repub- 
lican convention  and  hear  them  holler  for  Elaine, 
and  holler  once  more  myself,  I'd  be  willinger  to  die. 
And  I  told  Tom  Hale  that,  and  he  and  Jenny  raised 
the  money.  Yes,  Jenny,  I'm  going  to  tell — he  and 
Jenny  put  off  being  married  a  bit  so's  I  could  go, 
and  go  on  plenty  of  money.  Jenny,  she  worked  a 
month  longer  to  have  plenty,  and  Tom,  he  slipped 
ten  dollars  into  my  hand  unbeknown  to  her,  jest  as 
we  were  going,  so  I'd  always  have  a  dime  to  give 
94 


THE  OLD    PARTISAN 

the  waiter  or  the  porter.  I  was  never  one  of  these 
hayseed  farmers,  too  stingy  to  give  a  colored  boy  a 
dime  when  he'd  done  his  best.  I  didn't  need  no 
money  for  badges ;  I  got  my  old  badges — see !" 

He  pushed  out  the  lapel  of  his  coat,  covered  with 
old-fashioned  frayed  bits  of  tinsel  and  ribbon, 
smiling  confidently.  The  girl  had  flushed  crimson 
to  the  rim  of  her  white  collar;  but  there  was  not  a 
trace  of  petulance  in  her  air;  and,  all  at  once  looking 
at  him,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"Tom's  an  awful  good  fellow,"  he  said,  "an  awful 
good  fellow.'' 

"I'm  sure  of  that,"  said  the  Canton  man,  with  the 
frank  American  friendliness,  making  a  little  bow  in 
Miss  Jenny's  direction;  "but  see  here,  Mr.  Painter, 
do  you  come  from  Izard?  Are  you  the  man  that 
saved  the  county  for  the  Republicans  by  mortgaging 
his  farm  and  then  going  on  a  house-to-house  can- 
vass?" 

"That's  me,"  the  old  man  acquiesced,  blushing 
with  pleasure;  "I  didn't  think,  though,  that  it  was 
known  outside — " 

"Things  go  further  than  you  guess.  I'm  a  news- 
paper man,  and  I  can  tell  you  that  I  shall  speak  of  it 
95 


STORIES   THAT    END    WELL 

again  in  my  paper.  Well,  I  guess  they've  got 
through  with  their  mail,  and  the  platform's  coming 
in." 

Thus  he  brushed  aside  the  old  man's  agitated 
thanks. 

"One  moment,"  said  the  old  man,  "who — who's 
going  to  nominate  him?" 

For  the  space  of  an  eyeblink  the  kindly  Canton 
man  looked  embarrassed,  then  he  said,  briskly: 
"Foraker,  Foraker,  of  Ohio — he's  the  principal  one. 
That's  he  now,  chairman  of  the  committee  on  reso- 
lutions. He's  there,  the  tall  man  with  the  mus- 
tache— " 

"Isn't  that  elderly  man,  with  the  stoop  shoulders 
and  the  chin  beard  and  caved-in  face,  Teller?"  It 
was  a  man  near  me,  on  the  seat  behind,  who  spoke, 
tapping  the  Canton  man  with  his  fan,  to  attract  at- 
tention; already  the  pitiful  concerns  of  the  old  man 
who  was  "a  little  off"  (as  I  had  heard  some  one  on 
the  seat  whisper)  were  sucked  out  of  notice  in  the 
whirlpool  of  the  approaching  political  storm. 

"Yes,  that's  Teller,"  answered  the  Canton  man, 
his  mouth  straightening  and  growing  thin. 

"Is  it  to  be  a  bolt?" 

96 


THE  OLD    PARTISAN 

The  Canton  man  nodded,  at  which  the  other  whis- 
tled and  communicated  the  information  to  his  neigh- 
bors, one  of  whom  remarked,  "Let  'em  bolt  and  be 
damned!"  A  general,  subtle  excitement  seemed  to 
communicate  its  vibrations  to  all  the  gallery.  Per- 
haps I  should  except  the  old  partisan ;  he  questioned 
the  girl  in  a  whisper,  and  then,  seeming  to  be  satis- 
fied, watched  the  strange  scene  that  ensued  with  an 
expression  of  patient  weariness.  The  girl  explained 
parts  of  the  platform  to  him  and  he  assented ;  it  was 
good  Republican  doctrine,  he  said,  but  what  did  they 
mean  with  all  this  talk  against  the  money ;  were  they 
having  trouble  with  the  mining  states  again?  The 
Canton  man  stopped  to  explain — he  certainly  was 
good-humored. 

During  the  next  twenty  minutes,  filled  as  they 
were  with  savage  emotion,  while  the  galleries,  like 
the  floor,  were  on  their  chairs  yelling,  cheering, 
brandishing  flags  and  fists  and  fans  and  pampas 
plumes  of  red,  white  and  blue  at  the  little  band  of 
silver  men  who  marched  through  the  ranks  of  their 
former  comrades;  he  stood,  he  waved  his  fan  in 
his  feeble  old  hand,  but  he  did  not  shout.  "You 
must  excuse  me,"  said  he,  "I'm  all  right  on  the 
97 


STORIES   THAT    END    WELL 

money  question,  but  I'm  saving  my  voice  to  shout 
for  him!" 

"That's  right,"  said  the  Canton  man ;  but  he  cast  a 
backward  glance  which  said  as  plainly  as  a  glance 
can  speak,  "I  wish  I  were  out  of  this !" 

Meanwhile,  with  an  absent  but  happy  smile,  the 
old  Elaine  man  was  beating  time  to  the  vast  waves 
of  sound  that  rose  and  swelled  above  the  band,  above 
the  cheering,  above  the  cries  of  anger  and  scorn,  the 
tremendous  chorus  that  had  stiffened  men's  hearts 
as  they  marched  to  death  and  rung  through  streets 
filled  with  armies  and  thrilled  the  waiting  hearts  at 
home : 

"Three  cheers  for  the  red,  white  and  blue ! 
Three  cheers  for  the  red,  white  and  blue ! 
The  army  and  navy  for  ever,  three  cheers  for 
the  red,  white  and  blue !" 

But  when  the  chairman  had  stilled  the  tumult 
and  made  his  grim  comment,  "There  appear  to  be 
enough  delegates  left  to  transact  business,"  the  old 
partisan  cast  his  eyes  down  to  the  floor  with  a 
chuckle.  "I  can't  see  the  hole  they  made,  it's  so 
98 


THE  OLD    PARTISAN" 

small.  Say,  ain't  he  a  magnificent  chairman;  you 
can  hear  every  word  he  says !" 

"Bully  chairman,"  said  a  cheerful  "rooter"  in  the 
rear,  who  had  enjoyed  the  episode  more  than  words 
can  say,  and  had  cheered  the  passing  of  Silver  with 
such  choice  quotations  from  popular  songs  as 
"Good-by,  my  'lover,  good-by,"  and  "Just  mention 
that  you  saw  me,"  and  plainly  felt  that  he,  too,  had 
adorned  the  moment  "I  nearly  missed  coming  this 
morning,  and  I  wouldn't  have  missed  it  for  a  tenner ; 
they're  going  to  nominate  now." 

The  old  man  caught  his  breath;  then  he  smiled. 
"I'll  help  you  shout  pretty  soon,"  said  he,  while  he 
sat  down  very  carefully. 

The  "rooter,"  a  good-looking  young  fellow  with 
a  Reed  button  and  three  or  four  gaudy  badges  deck- 
ing his  crash  coat,  nodded  and  tapped  his  temple 
furtively,  still  retaining  his  expression  of  radiant 
good-nature.  The  Canton  man  nodded  and  frowned. 

I  felt  that  the  Canton  man  need  not  be  afraid. 
Somehow  we  were  all  tacitly  taking  care  that  this 
poor,  bewildered  soul  should  not  have  its  little  dream 
of  loyal,  unselfish  satisfaction  dispelled. 

"Ah,  my  countrymen,"  I  thought,  "you  do  a  hun- 
99 


STORIES   THAT    END    WELL 

dred  crazy  things,  you  crush  les  convenances  under 
foot,  you  can  be  fooled  by  frantic  visionaries,  but 
how  I  love  you !" 

It  was  Baldwin  of  Iowa  that  made  the  first  speech. 
He  was  one  of  the  very  few  men — I  had  almost  said 
of  the  two  men — that  we  in  the  galleries  had  the 
pleasure  of  hearing;  and  we  could  hear  every  word. 

He  began  with  a  glowing  tribute  to  Elaine.  At 
the  first  sentence  our  old  man  flung  his  gray  head  in 
the  air  with  the  gesture  of  the  war  horse  when  he 
catches  the  first,  far-off  scream  of  the  trumpet.  He 
leaned  forward,  his  features  twitching,  his  eyes 
burning;  the  fan  dropped  out  of  his  limp  hand;  his 
fingers,  rapping  his  palm,  clenched  and  loosened 
themselves  unconsciously  in  an  overpowering  agita- 
tion. His  face  was  white  as  marble,  with  ominous 
blue  shadows:  but  every  muscle  was  astrain;  his 
chest  expanded ;  his  shoulders  drew  back ;  his  mouth 
was  as  strong  and  firm  as  a  young  man.  For  a  sec- 
ond we  could  see  what  he  had  been  at  his  prime. 

Then  the  orator's  climax  came,  and  the  name — 
the  magic  name  that  was  its  own  campaign  cry  in 
itself. 

The  old  partisan  leaped  to  his  feet;  he  waved  his 

TOO 


THE  OLD    PARTISAN 

hands  above  his  head;  wild,  strange,  in  his  white 
flame  of  excitement.  He  shouted;  and  we  all 
shouted  with  him,  the  McKinley  man  and  the  Reed 
man  vicing  with  each  other  (I  here  offer  my  testi- 
mony as  to  the  scope  and  quality  of  that  young 
Reed  man's  voice),  and  the  air  rang  about  us: 
"Elaine!  Elaine!  James  G.  Elaine!"  He  shrieked 
the  name  again  and  again,  goading  into  life  the 
waning  applause.  Then  in  an  instant  his  will 
snapped  under  the  strain ;  his  gray  beard  tilted  in  the 
air ;  his  gray  head  went  back  on  his  neck. 

The  Canton  man  and  I  caught  him  in  time  to  ease 
the  fall.  We  were  helped  to  pull  him  into  the  aisle. 
There  were  four  of  us  by  this  time,  his  granddaugh- 
ter and  the  Reed  "rooter,"  besides  the  Canton  man 
and  myself. 

We  carried  him  into  the  wide  passageway  that  led 
to  the  seats.  The  Reed  young  man  ran  for  water, 
and,  finding  none,  quickly  returned  with  a  glass  of 
lemonade  (he  was  a  young  fellow  ready  in  shifts), 
and  with  it  we  bathed  the  old  man's  face. 

Presently  he  came  back,  by  degrees,  to  the  world ; 
he  was  not  conscious,  but  we  could  see  that  he  was 
not  going  to  die. 

101 


STORIES   THAT    END   WELL 

"He'll  be  all  right  in  no  time,"  declared  the  Reed 
man.  "You  had  better  go  back  and  get  your  seats, 
and  keep  mine!" 

I  assured  both  men  that  I  could  not  return  for 
more  than  a  short  time,  having  an  engagement  for 
luncheon. 

"That's  all  right,"  said  the  Reed  man,  turning  to 
the  Canton  man,  "I  ain't  shouting  when  Foraker 
comes;  you  are.  You  go  back  and  keep  my  seat; 
I'll  come  in  later  on  Hobart." 

So  the  kindly  Canton  man  returned  to  the  conven- 
tion for  which  he  was  longing,  and  we  remained  in 
our  little  corner  by  the  window,  the  young  girl  fan- 
ning the  old  man,  and  the  young  man  on  the  watch 
for  a  boy  with  water.  He  darted  after  one;  and 
then  the  girl  turned  to  me. 

No  one  disturbed  us.  Below  the  traffic  of  a  great 
city  roared  up  to  us  and  a  brass  band  clanged  mer- 
rily. The  crowd  hurried  past,  drawn  by  the  tidings 
that  "the  fight  was  on,"  and  choked  the  outlets  and 
suffocated  the  galleries. 

"He's  been  that  way  ever  since  he  read,  suddenly, 
that  Blaine  was  dead" — she  said,  lowering  her  voice 
to  keep  it  safe  from  his  failing  ears— "he  had  a  kind 
102 


THE   OLD    PARTISAN 

of  a  stroke,  and  ever  since  he's  had  the  notion  that 
Elaine  was  alive  and  was  going  to  be  nominated,  and 
his  heart  was  set  on  going  here.  Mother  was  afraid ; 
but  when — when  he  cried  to  go,  I  could  not  help 
taking  him — I  didn't  know  but  maybe  it  might  help 
him ;  he  was  such  a  smart  man  and  such  a  good  man ; 
and  he  has  had  trouble  about  mortgaging  the  farm ; 
and  he  worked  so  hard  to  get  the  money  back,  so 
mother  would  feel  right.  All  through  the  hot 
weather  he  worked,  and  I  guess  that's  how  it  hap- 
pened. You  don't  think  it's  hurt  him?  The  doctor 
said  he  might  go.  He  told  T — ,  a  gentleman  friend 
of  mine  who  asked  him." 

"Oh,  dear,  no,"  I  exclaimed,  "it  has  been  good  for 
him." 

I  asked  for  her  address,  which  fortunately  was 
near,  and  I  offered  her  the  cab  that  was  waiting  for 
me.  I  had  some  ado  to  persuade  her  to  accept  it ; 
but  when  I  pointed  to  her  grandfather's  pale  face 
she  did  accept  it,  thanking  me  in  a  simple  but  touch- 
ing way,  and,  of  course,  begging  me  to  visit  her  at 
Izard,  Ohio. 

All  this  while  we  had  been  sedulously  fanning  the 
old  man,  who  would  occasionally  open  his  eyes  for 
103 


STORIES   THAT    END   WELL 

a  second,  but  gave  no  other  sign  of  returning  con- 
sciousness. 

The  young  Reed  man  came  back  with  the  water. 
He  was  bathing  the  old  man's  forehead  in  a  very 
skillful  and  careful  way,  using  my  handkerchief, 
when  an  uproar  of  cheering  shook  the  very  floor 
under  us  and  the  rafters  overhead. 

"Who  is  it?"  the  old  man  inquired,  feebly. 

"Foraker!  Foraker!"  bellowed  the  crowd. 

"He's  nominated  him!"  muttered  the  old  man; 
but  this  time  he  did  not  attempt  to  rise.  With  a 
smile  of  great  content  he  leaned  against  his  grand- 
daughter's strong  young  frame  and  listened,  while 
the  cheers  swelled  into  a  deafening  din,  an  immeas- 
urable tumult  of  sound,  out  of  which  a  few  strong 
voices  shaped  the  chorus  of  the  Battle  Cry  of  Free- 
dom, to  be  caught  up  by  fifteen  thousand  throats  and 
pealed  through  the  walls  far  down  the  city  streets  to 
the  vast  crowd  without. 

The  young  Reed  "boomer,"  carried  away  by  the 
moment,  flung  his  free  hand  above  his  head  and 
yelled  defiantly:  "Three  cheers  for  the  man  from 
Maine!"  Instantly  he  caught  at  his  wits,  his  color 
turned,  and  he  lifted  an  abashed  face  to  the  young 
girl 

104 


THE  OLD    PARTISAN 

"But,  really,  you  know,  that  ain't  giving  nothing 
away,"  he  apologized,  plucking  up  heart.  "May  I 
do  it  again?" 

The  old  partisan's  eye  lighted.  "Now  they're 
shouting!  That's  like  old  times!  Yes,  do  it  again, 
boy!  Elaine!  Elaine!  James  G.  Elaine!" 

He  let  us  lead  him  to  the  carriage,  the  rapturous 
smile  still  on  his  lips.  The  "rooter"  and  I  wormed 
our  way  through  the  crowd  back  to  the  seats  which 
the  kind  Canton  man  had  kept  for  us. 

We  were  quite  like  old  acquaintances  now;  and 
he  turned  to  me  at  once.  "Was  there  ever  a  poli- 
tician or  a  statesman,  since  Henry  Clay,  loved  so 
well  as  James  G.  Elaine  ?" 


105 


MAX-OR  HIS  PICTURE 

A  KNOCK  sounded  on  the  principal's  door. 
"That's  Florence,"  she  thought;  and  she 
sighed  in  the  same  breath.  The  principal  had  se- 
cretly liked  Florence  Raimund,  the  best  of  her  two 
hundred  girls,  for  three  years;  and,  sometimes,  she 
suspected  that  Florence  knew  it.  Miss  Wing  sat  at 
her  desk.  It  was  a  large  desk  of  oak,  always  kept 
in  blameless  order.  No  one  could  recall  seeing  more 
than  one  letter  at  a  time  lying  on  the  blotter.  Any 
others,  yet  unread,  lay  in  the  wicker  tray  to  the  left; 
the  letters  read  but  not  answered  were  in  the  wicker 
tray  to  the  right ;  the  answered  letters  were  in  appro- 
priate pigeonholes  or  in  ashes,  Miss  Wing  being  a 
firm  believer  in  fire  as  a  confidential  agent.  Above 
the  desk  hung  the  most  interesting  object  in  the 
room,  to  the  school-girls ;  in  fact  it  would  be  hard  to 
gage  justly  the  influence  this  one,  mute  and  motion- 
less, had  over  their  young  imaginations ;  or  how  far 
it  was  responsible  for  the  rose-tinted  halo  that  be- 
106 


MAX— OR   HIS   PICTURE 

doubt,  glorified  the  principal  for  them.  The 
object  was  a  picture,  the  picture  of  a  young  man  in 
the  uniform  of  a  captain  in  the  German  cuirassiers. 
His  thick  light  hair  was  brushed  back  from  a  fine 
and  candid  forehead.  A  smile  creased  his  cheek 
under  the  warlike  curl  of  his  mustachios.  It  was  a 
smile  so  happy  and  so  friendly  in  its  happiness,  that 
it  won  the  beholder.  The  eyes  were  not  large,  but 
even  in  the  black  and  white  of  a  photograph  (the 
portrait  was  an  ordinary  cabinet  carte)  they  seemed 
to  sparkle.  The  young  fellow's  figure  was  superb, 
and  held  with  a  military  precision  and  jauntiness. 
One  said,  looking  at  the  whole  presence,  "This  man 
is  a  good  fellow."  Viewing  him  more  closely,  one 
might  add,  "And  he  is  in  love."  The  picture  was 
framed  handsomely  in  a  gilded  frame.  On  the  desk 
below,  an  exquisite  vase  of  Venice  lifted  a  single, 
perfect  rose.  For  fifteen  years  a  flower  had  always 
bloomed  thus.  Miss  Wing  had  hung  the  picture 
herself,  fifteen  years  ago.  Then,  she  was  the  new 
principal,  and  the  school  was  but  half  its  size;  and 
the  village  people  exclaimed  at  trusting  "such  a  girl" 
with  so  much  responsibility.  During  those  fifteen 
years  the  new  building  had  been  built,  the  school  had 
107 


STORIES   THAT    END   WELL 

grown  and  flourished ;  and  the  gray  had  crept  into 
Margaret  Wing's  bright  hair.  She  had  so  often  put 
on  mourning  for  her  near  kindred  that  she  had  as- 
sumed it  as  her  permanent  garb.  To  the  certain 
(and  ecstatic)  knowledge  of  the  school,  she  had  re- 
fused divers  offers  of  marriage  from  citizens  of 
good  repute  and  substance.  But  during  all  the 
changing  years,  the  picture  had  kept  its  place  and 
the  fresh  flowers  had  bloomed  below.  No  girl  could 
remember  the  desk  without  the  picture;  and  when 
the  old  girls  visited  the  school,  their  eyes  would  in- 
stinctively seek  it  in  its  old  place ;  always  with  a  little 
moving  of  the  heart.  Yet  no  one  ever  alluded  to  it 
to  the  principal ;  and  no  one,  not  her  most  trusted 
teacher,  nor  her  best  loved  pupil,  had  ever  heard  the 
principal  speak  of  it.  The  name  of  the  pictured 
soldier,  his  story,  his  relation  to  Miss  Wing;  Miss 
Wing's  nearest  kindred  and  friends  knew  as  much 
about  all  these  as  the  school — and  that  was  nothing. 
Nevertheless,  the  school  tradition  reported  part  of 
a  name  on  the  authority  of  a  single  incident.  Years 
ago  an  accident  happened  to  the  picture.  It  was  the 
principal's  custom  to  carry  it  with  her  on  her  jour- 
neys, however  brief ;  always  taking  it  down  and  put- 
108 


MAX— OR   HIS    PICTURE 

ting  it  back  in  its  place  herself.  On  this  occasion  the 
floor  had  been  newly  polished,  and  in  hanging  the 
picture  her  chair  on  which  she  stood  slipped  and  she 
fell,  while  the  picture  dropped  out  of  her  grasp. 
One  of  the  girls,  who  was  passing,  ran  to  her  aid; 
but  she  had  crawled  toward  the  picture  and  would 
have  it  in  her  hands  before  she  allowed  the  girl  to 
aid  her  to  rise — a  circumstance,  you  may  be  sure, 
not  likely  to  escape  the  sharp  young  eyes.  Neither 
did  these  same  eyes  miss  the  further  circumstance 
that  the  jar  had  shifted  the  carte  in  the  frame  and 
a  line  of  writing,  hitherto  hidden,  was  staring  out 
at  the  world.  The  hand  was  the  sharp,  minute  Ger- 
man hand,  but  the  words  were  English ;  the  girl  took 
them  in  at  an  eyeblink,  as  she  handed  the  picture  to 
Miss  Wing:  "Thine  for  ever,  Max."  Miss  Wing 
made  no  comment ;  perhaps  she  supposed  that  the  girl 
had  not  seen,  perhaps — in  any  case  she  was  silent. 

Of  course,  the  new  light  flooded  the  school  gossip 
immediately.  But  there  never  came  any  more ;  every 
new  girl  was  free  to  work  her  own  will  on  Miss 
Wing's  romance.  Was  "Max"  dead?  Had  they 
parted  because  of  any  act  on  the  woman's  part? 
Surely  he  could  not  have  been  false,  to  receive  that 
109 


STORIES    THAT    END    WELL 

daily  oblation  of  flowers.     It  was  more  likely  that 
she  thus  expressed  an  imperishable  regret.     Youth, 
ever  fanciful,  played  with  all  manner  of  dainty  and 
plaintive  variations  on  the  theme.    Its  very  mystery 
was  its  poignant  charm;  since  each  tender  young 
soul   created   a   new    romance   and   a   new   appeal. 
Elusive  and  pathetic,  it  hovered  on  the  edge  of  these 
young  lives,  like  the  perfume  of  a  flower.    And  its 
influence  was  the  more  potent  that  it  asked  for  noth- 
ing.   It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  the  spectacle  of 
that  gentle  and  reticent  faithfulness  was  the  strong- 
est element  in  the  school  atmosphere.    Certainly,  be- 
cause of  it,  Miss  Wing  had  greater  power  over  her 
scholars.     She  was  a  woman  of  ability  and  gentle 
force;  by  nature  a  little  aloof,  a  little  precise,  able 
to  feel  deeply,  but  not  able  to  express  her  sympathies 
or  her  pain.     Without  her  mysterious  sorrow,  she 
would  have  seemed  to  young  girls  a  thought  too  ad- 
mirable ;  they  would  have  been  chilled  by  her  virtues : 
but  as  it  was,  their  perception  that  she  had  lived 
deeply,  that  she  had  suffered,  that  she  had  been  loved 
and  had  loved  eternally,  opened  their  hearts.    They 
would  have  admired  her,  now  they  adored  her.    By 
degrees,  and  insensibly  to  herself,  she  became  the 
no 


MAX— OR    HIS    PICTURE 

confessor  of  her  little  world.  After  they  left  school, 
her  girls  brought  her  their  perplexities  of  the  heart. 
Wives  came  to  her  with  cruel  dilemmas  which  they 
shrank  from  revealing  to  their  own  mothers — per- 
haps because  the  mothers  could  not  be  trusted  to 
plead  for  the  erring  husband  so  well ;  for  a  woman 
who  loves  complains,  not  to  be  justified  herself,  but 
to  hear  her  lover's  misconduct  excused  and  his  love 
proved  against  her  doubts.  Before  they  left  school, 
the  girls  confessed  their  faults  and  failings  and 
strivings  of  conscience  with  the  same  eagerness  with 
which  they  asked  counsel  in  their  innocent  romances 
of  friendship  or  the  sorrows  of  trigonometry,  and 
they  accepted  any  penance  directed,  not  only  with 
patience,  but  a  kind  of  exaltation  natural  to  youth, 
which  finds  a  secret  joy  in  the  exercise  of  its  own 
fortitude. 

To-day,  however,  Miss  Wing  sat  before  the  pic- 
ture which  so  many  young  eyes  had  studied  with 
such  vague,  yet  ardent,  sympathy,  and  pondered  over 
a  confidence  that  had  not  come.  The  lack  of  its  com- 
ing hurt  her ;  and  the  tap  on  her  door  was  welcome, 
for  she  thought,  "It  is  she — coming  to  tell  me.  Oh, 
I  hope  he  is  the  right  man." 
in 


STORIES   THAT   END   WELL 

At  her  response,  the  door  swung  open  with  a  jerk, 
and  the  dark-eyed  girl  who  entered  was  catching 
her  breath,  although  she  tried  to  make  the  quick  in- 
takes noiseless.  There  was  a  look  of  pale  resolution 
on  her  features. 

"Have  you  come  to  let  me  congratulate  you,  my 
clear?"  said  the  principal,  rising.  The  girl  colored 
scarlet.  "I've  come  because  I  had  to,  because  I 
couldn't  deceive  you,"  she  blurted.  "Miss  Wing,  it 
isn't  so.  I  let  Miss  Parker  think  so;  but  I'm  not  en- 
gaged to  him." 

"Sit  down,  dear,"  said  Miss  Wing.  The  soft 
cadence  of  her  voice  did  not  roughen.  She  sat  down 
when  her  guest  sat,  and  leaned  back  in  her  desk 
chair,  folding  her  slim,  white  hands.  There  were 
flashing  rings  on  her  hands;  and  the  girls  used  to 
wonder  which  ring  "Max"  had  given  her.  They 
favored  the  sapphire,  set  between  two  diamonds,  be- 
cause of  its  beauty  ("a  real  Cashmere,  you  know"), 
and  because,  whether  she  wore  other  rings  or  not, 
this  always  kept  its  place. 

"Now,  tell  me,"  said  Miss  Wing. 

"I  had  a  letter  from  him  this  morning;  it  was  just 
a  note  in  one  of  Helen  Grier's" — the  girl's  lithe 
112 


MAX— OR   HIS   PICTURE 

form  was  erect  in  the  chair,  every  muscle  tense; 
she  looked  past  Miss  Wing  to  the  wall  and  spoke  in 
toneless  voice;  no  one  could  see  that  she  was  driv- 
ing straight  on  to  her  purpose,  over  her  own  writh- 
ing nerves — "all  he  said  was  that  he  had  been  called 
back  to  Germany — " 

"Is  he  a  German  ?  Miss  Parker  said  his  name  was 
Cutler." 

"It  is  Butler,"  the  girl  said,  flinging  her  head  back, 
while  a  spark  crept  into  her  liquid,  troubled,  dark 
eyes,  "but  he  is  a  German.  Don't  you  know  the 
Butlers  in  'Wallenstein  ?'  You  know  he  was  a  real 
man ;  and  he  founded  a  family.  He — my — my  friend 
is  the  Count  von  Butler."  Miss  Wing's  chair,  like 
other  desk  chairs,  was  set  on  a  pivot;  she  turned 
very  slightly  and  slowly,  at  the  same  time  resting 
her  elbow  on  the  desk.  The  girl  ventured  a  timid 
glance  at  her,  and  thought  that  she  looked  sterner, 
wherefore  her  heart  sank ;  but  she  only  continued  the 
faster :  "He  isn't  in  America  just  to  travel ;  he  was 
sent  by  his  government  to  watch  the  Cuban  war. 
He's  very  brave ;  and  he  isn't  a  bit  like  a  foreigner 
and  hasn't  any  nasty  supercilious  notions  about 
women.  Mr.  Grier  says  he  has  a  future.  And 


STORIES   THAT    END   WELL 

really,  Miss  Wing,  he  is  just  like  a — a — a  kind  of 
knight." 

"Where  did  you  meet  him?" 

"At  Helen's  last  summer.  And  he  was  going  out 
to  Minneapolis  to  see  papa,  I — I  think.  But  he  got 
a  cahle  of  his  uncle's  death.  And  his  two  little 
cousins  died  last  year;  so  now  he  is  the  head  of  the 
family ;  and  he  must  go  to  Germany  at  once.  For 
his  father  is  dead,  you  know.  So  he  wrote  (in 
Helen's  letter,  because  he  is  so — so  awfully  proper!) 
asking  to  let  him  come  here  and  take  me  to  drive — 
in  the  American  fashion.  I  know  who  put  him  up 
to  that  scheme;  it  was  Helen.  I  had  to  ask  Miss 
Parker,  because  you  were  out;  and  she  said  if  he 
wasn't  a  relation  or  the  man  I  was  going  to  marry 
I  couldn't  go.  'Of  course,  if  he  were  the  man  you 
expect  to  marry,'  she  said,  and — and  I — I  said,  'But 
he  is !'  Just  like  that.  I  can't  fancy  how  I  came  to 
say  such  a  thing,  but  when  it  was  said  I  didn't  know 
how  to  explain ;  and  I  was  so  awfully  ashamed  ;  and, 
besides" — she  lifted  her  eyes  in  the  frank  and  direct 
gaze  that  Miss  Wing  always  liked — "besides,  I  do 
want  to  see  him." 

"And  do  you  expect  him  to  ask  you  to  marry 
114 


MAX— OR    HIS    PICTURE 

him?"  said  Miss  Wing,  with  a  deepening  of  the  color 
on  her  cheek,  which  went  out  suddenly  like  the  flame 
of  a  lamp  in  the  wind. 

Florence  Raimund  blushed  again,  but  this  time 
she  laughed:  "I  don't  know.  He  is  so  awfully 
proper,"  said  she,  "and  he  hasn't  had  a  chance  to  ask 
papa ;  but — I  think  he  wants  to." 

"In  that  case,  isn't  he  the  man  whom  you  expect 
to  marry  ?"  asked  Miss  Wing  dryly.  "But  it  was  de- 
ceiving her  just  the  same.  I  am  glad  you  came, 
Florence." 

Here  the  girl  looked  up;  and  something  in  Miss 
Wing's  eyes  made  her  dash  across  the  room  to  fling 
herself  on  her  knees  before  that  lady  with  an  in- 
articulate gasp  between  a  sob  and  a  laugh,  and  the 
sentences  came  in  a  rush :  "I  had  to  come !  I  couldn't 
deceive  you  if  I  never  saw  him  again.  And  besides, 
I  hoped  you  would  think  of  some  way !" 

"And  you  escape  quite  unpunished?"  said  Miss 
Wing  gently. 

At  which  the  black  head  sank  lower,  while  a 
smothered  voice  mumbled :  "Do  you  think  I — liked 
it,  coming  to  tell  ?" 

Miss  Wing  smoothed  her  hair.  "It  would  have 
"5 


STORIES   THAT   END   WELL 

pained  me  very  much  if  you  had  not  come.  Tell  me ; 
whether  he  sees  you  or  not,  will  he  not  write  to  your 
father?  Do  you  think  his  feeling  is  so  slight  that  a 
disappointment  will  turn  it?" 

The  black  head  threw  itself  up  bravely  and  the 
fearless  young  eyes  met  Miss  Wing's  pensive  brown 
ones.  "No,  Miss  Wing,  I  know  it  will  make  no  dif- 
ference." 

Miss  Wing  stifled  a  sigh;  it  may  be  that  she  was 
not  so  sure  of  the  firm  purpose  of  a  lover;  she  spoke 
more  gently :  "It  is  only  the  disappointment,  then, 
if  you  can't  see  him?" 

The  girl's  face  quivered  a  little. 
"Perhaps  I  am  foolish,"  said  Miss  Wing,  "but 
I  think  it  would  be  a  disappointment  very  hard  to 
bear.  Still,  you  must  admit  that  parents  do  not  send 
their  children  to  school  expecting  them  to  become 
engaged  to  be  married ;  on  the  contrary,  there  is  a 
tacit  pledge  that  we  shall  protect  our  wards  from 
any  entanglement.  But  this  did  not  happen  at 
school;  the  only  question  is,  ought  I  to  prevent  it 
going  any  farther?  My  dear,  do  you  have  con- 
fidence in  me?" 

"Yes,  Miss  Wing,"  said  the  girl. 
116 


MAX— OR   HIS    PICTURE 

"Of  course,  I  do  not  think  that  I  ought  to  consent 
to  your  driving  alone  together." 

The  girl  drew  a  long  sigh.  "I  suppose  not,"  she 
breathed,  in  dismal  resignation. 

"But  I  should  like  him  to  some  here,  to  see  me ; 
and  then,  if  I  find  him  to  be  what  your  father  would 
approve,  you  may  see  him  here ;  and  we  shall  all  have 
to  explain  things  together,  I  fancy,  to  your  father." 

The  girl  drew  another,  a  very  different,  sigh,  and 
impulsively  kissed  Miss  Wing's  hand.  She  tried  to 
speak,  and  could  only  murmur,  "Oh,  I  do  love  you !" 

"And  so,  if  you  will  tell  Graf  von  Butler — what 
is  his  Christian  name,  Florence?" 

"Max,"  said  the  girl,  very  low,  for  she  felt  the 
presence  of  the  picture,  on  which  she  had  not  once 
turned  her  eyes.  Before  she  spoke,  under  a  pretense 
of  a  pull  at  her  skirt,  she  slipped  her  hand  out  of  the 
hand  with  the  sapphire  ring.  Yet  her  excited  young 
nerves  vibrated  at  the  slight  cough  which  came  as 
the  principal  changed  her  position,  before  she  said, 
in  her  usual  tone :  "It  is  a  fine  name.  Well,  Florence, 
you  will  tell  Count  Max  von  Butler  that  I  shall  hope 
to  see  him.  And — will  you  trust  me  ?" 

The  girl  told  her  that  she  would  trust  her  utterly, 
117 


STORIES    THAT    END    WELL 

and  she  knew  that  it  would  be  right ;  and  oh,  she  was 
so  happy.  And  she  came  back  to  say,  with  the  tears 
in  her  eyes,  "I  shall  be  grateful  to  you  as  long  as  I 
live." 

Miss  Wing  stood  in  the  center  of  the  room, 
smiling,  until  the  door  closed.  But  then  in  a  second 
she  was  at  the  door,  almost  fiercely,  but  noiselessly, 
twisting  the  key  in  the  lock.  From  the  door  she 
passed  to  the  windows  and  dropped  the  shades.  At 
last,  safe  from  every  chance  of  espial,  she  sat  down 
again  in  her  chair  before  the  desk,  leaned  her  elbows 
on  the  desk,  and  looked  desperately,  miserably,  into 
the  joyous  face  of  the  picture.  She  did  not  speak, 
but  her  thoughts  took  on  words  and  sank  like  hot 
lead  into  her  heart.  "Max  Butler!  Max  Butler! 
The  little  nephew  he  told  me  about.  And  he  has 
been  alive  all  these  years;  and  happy;  with  little 
sons,  while  I — I  have  lied  to  these  trusting  girls.  It 
was  wicked  and  shameless.  I  deceived  myself ;  then 
I  deceived  them.  I  wonder  why.  I  knew  what  they 
were  thinking.  How  dared  I  look  that  honest  child 
in  the  face !  I  suppose  she  wonders  like  the  rest  why 
I  have  not  told  any  one  of  my  romance.  And  it  is 
simply  that  there  was  nothing  to  tell.  Nothing." 
118 


MAX— OR   HIS    PICTURE 

She  looked  into  the  soldier's  happy  eyes  while  her 
lips  curled  and  she  murmured,  drearily  and  bitterly, 
"I  haven't  even  the  right  to  be  angry  with  you,  poor 
lad.  What  did  you  do?  You  are  not  my  Max;  I 
only  made  him  up  out  of  my  heart — like  children 
playing  a  game !"  Her  mind  drifted  dizzily  through 
shapeless  and  inconsequent  visions  of  the  past.  She 
was  seeing  again  the  grim  pile  of  the  ruined  castle, 
the  masses  of  broken  shadow,  the  intricate  carving 
on  arch  and  architrave  and  plinth,  the  wavering 
mass  of  limbs  and  tree-trunks  on  the  green  sward; 
and  she,  with  her  twisted  ankle,  was  kneeling,  try- 
ing to  peer  through  the  shrubbery  for  her  lost  com- 
panions. Did  he  come  by  chance  ?  She  had  seen  the 
handsome  young  officer  daily,  for  a  week.  His 
great-aunt  was  Margaret's  right-hand  neighbor  at 
the  pension  table  d'hote,  a  withered  relic  of  Polish 
nobility  with  fine,  black  eyes  in  a  face  like  a  hickory 
nut;  who  wore  shabby  gowns  and  magnificent  jew- 
els, frankly  smoked  cigarettes,  and  seemed  to  have 
a  venomous  tale  ready  to  fit  any  name  mentioned  in 
conversation — with  one  exception,  her  nephew's. 
According  to  her,  Max's  father  was  a  swine  and  his 
mother  a  fool  and  his  brother  a  popinjay,  and  his 
119 


STORIES   THAT    END   WELL 

sister  had  no  respect  for  her  betters ;  but  Max  had  a 
heart.  It  was  understood  at  the  pension  that  she 
was  arranging  a  great  match  for  him.  In  spite  of 
the  general  disapproval  of  his  aunt,  he  was  a  favor- 
ite, he  was  so  simple,  amiable,  and  polite.  Even  the 
American  professor  admitted  that  for  a  man  "who 
had  won  the  iron  cross  in  such  a  spectacular  fash- 
ion, he  was  very  modest  and  really  more  like  an 
American  than  a  German  officer,"  thus  paying  the 
unconsciously  arrogant  compliment  kept  by  every 
race  for  engaging  aliens.  Margaret's  first  sight  of 
him  was  not  tinder  the  shelter  of  conventionalities. 
It  happened  that  the  countess'  ferocious  pet  (and  the 
terror  of  the  pension),  a  Great  Dane,  was  trying  to 
eat  up  a  little  girl,  but  fortunately  had  begun  with 
her  petticoats.  The  court  of  the  house  was  the  scene 
of  the  fray;  a  large,  timid  cook,  the  only  witness, 
was  waving  a  copper  kettle  full  of  the  meringue  that 
she  was  beating,  in  one  hand,  and  the  great  wire 
whip  in  the  other,  while  she  shrieked  impartially  on 
Heaven  and  the  police.  Margaret  heard  the  din. 
She  ran  to  the  spot.  Being  a  New  England  woman, 
she  didn't  scream;  one  swift  glance  went  from  the 
child's  writhing  body  and  the  dog's  horrible  head  to 
120 


MAX— OR   HIS    PICTURE 

the  wailing  cook.  In  two  strides  she  caught  the  ket- 
tle out  of  a  fat  and  agitated  German  hand  and  hurled 
the  whole  sticky,  white  mass  full  at  the  dog's  eyes ; 
then,  as  the  blinded  and  astounded  beast  flung  his 
head  back  to  howl,  and  spattered  the  world  with  me- 
ringue, she  snatched  up  the  child  and  sent  her  flying 
into  the  door  and  the  cook.  The  dog  was  smeared 
with  meringue,  she  was  smeared,  the  child  was 
smeared,  the  cook  was  smeared ;  and  now  a  beau- 
tiful white  and  gold  officer,  who  bounded  over 
the  wall  and  fell  upon  the  dog  with  his  saber  and 
two  heels,  was  smeared  the  most  lavishly  of  all! 
No  wonder  Frau  Miiller  (visible  aloft,  in  an  art- 
less German  toilet  of  ease  and  without  her  teeth), 
the  countess  (who  was  a  gazing  stock,  for  the 
same  reason),  and  Augustine,  her  maid,  the  three 
Russians  on  the  second  floor,  and  the  three  Amer- 
icans on  the  third,  filled  the  windows  with  poly- 
glot consternation!  The  consequence  of  it  all  was 
that  when  the  Count  von  Butler  was  formally  pre- 
sented to  Miss  Wing  that  evening,  she  blushed. 
She  was  too  pale  and  listless  to  be  pretty,  but  when 
she  blushed  she  was  enchanting.  Remembering  the 
meringue,  she  smiled  and  ventured  an  upward 

121 


STORIES   THAT   END   .WELL 

glance ;  and,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  met  the 
admiration  in  the  eyes  of  a  man.  At  this  time  Mar- 
garet was  thirty  years  old  and  had  never  been  asked 
in  marriage.  She  had  spent  most  of  the  thirty  years 
in  a  boarding-school,  as  pupil  or  as  teacher;  and  she 
had  brought  from  her  cloistered  life  a  single  vivid 
feeling,  a  passionate  friendship  which  death  had 
ended.  The  sapphire  ring  was  her  poor  friend's 
last  token. 

To  be  thirty  and  never  to  have  been  sought  like 
other  girls,  leaves  a  chill  in  the  heart.  It  may  be 
lonely  never  to  have  loved,  but  it  is  bleak  never  to 
have  been  loved.  Margaret  remembered  her  delicate, 
girlish  dreams  with  a  recoil  of  humiliation ;  they 
seemed  to  her  almost  immodest.  She  thought  she 
was  too  old  to  wear  hats,  and  wondered  whether  she 
ought  not  to  discard  the  pinks  and  light  blues  which 
poor  Elly  had  liked  on  her,  for  more  sedate  colors. 
But  she  wore  pink  after  she  met  Max  Butler.  Yet  he 
never  saw  her  save  in  the  presence  of  others.  He  was 
full  of  little,  graceful  attentions,  but  he  showed  the 
same  attentions  to  the  portly  clergyman's  widow 
and  the  meritorious  but  cross-eyed  teacher  of  fifty, 
who  formed  Miss  Wing's  "party" ;  it  was  only  his 
122 


MAX— OR   HIS    PICTURE 

eyes,  his  eyes  always  following  her,  approvingly,  de- 
lighting, admiring,  pleading,  speaking  to  her  as  they 
spoke  to  no  other  woman.  She  told  herself  that  it 
was  just  the  pleasant,  foreign  way ;  and  she  wrote  to 
her  friends  in  America,  "The  German  officers  have 
very  agreeable,  deferential  manners ;  I  think  they  are 
much  more  gentle  and  polite  and  have  a  higher 
respect  for  women  than  the  French  or  Italians." 
And  he  said  no  word,  even  of  friendship,  until  that 
afternoon  at  the  Heidelberger  Schloss. 

He  came  upon  her  almost  immediately,  scram- 
bling up  the  bank  at  a  rate  which  had  worked  woe  to 
his  uniform.  He  was  torn,  he  was  scratched,  he  was 
stained  with  mud  and  grass;  and  he  was  beaming 
with  delight.  "I  have  seen  you  from  below,"  he  ex- 
claimed in  his  careful  English,  "so  I  came  up.  Will 
you  excuse?"  Then  his  mood  changed,  perceiv- 
ing her  plight,  and  he  insisted  on  tearing  his  hand- 
kerchief into  strips  to  bind  her  ankle.  It  seemed 
absurd  to  refuse  his  aid,  which  he  offered  quite 
simply ;  but  his  hands  trembled  a  little  over  the  knots. 
"It  will  be  most  easy,  I  think,"  said  he,  "that  you 
should  let  me  assist  you  a  small  way,  to  the  restau- 
123 


STORIES   THAT    END   WELL 

radon;  so  I  can  get  the  carriage,  and  you  can  have 
some  ice  cream.  Again,  to-day,  is  it  burned — 

She  had  laughed  and  said  that  she  never  had 
heard  of  burned  ice  cream.  He  laughed,  too,  and 
explained  that  it  was  burned  as  a  custard,  and  some- 
how under  cover  of  this  she  let  him  put  her  hand  on 
his  shoulder  and  his  arm  about  her  waist.  She  was 
grateful  to  him  for  the  matter-of-fact  manner  in 
which  he  did  it  all,  saying,  "You  will  have  to  be  my 
comrade  that  has  been  wounded,  and  I  will  help  him 
off  the  field ;  so  I  did,  once,  with  my  colonel ;  it  is 
better  than  to  wait  until  I  could  bring  help."  In  this 
fashion  they  walked  for  some  twenty  minutes.  They 
were  minutes  not  entirely  disfigured  by  her  physical 
pain,  for  it  was  a  comfort  to  be  helped  by  so  strong 
and  kind  a  friend.  The  comfort  brightened  almost 
into  pleasure,  as  they  drove  homeward  in  a  shabby 
droschky,  with  all  the  circuit  of  the  horizon  flooded 
with  softest  rose  and  gold,  reflecting  the  cloudless 
glory  of  the  west.  Borne  along  through  that  unreal 
and  lovely  radiance,  past  the  hills  checkered  with 
vineyards  and  ripening  grain,  which  the  sunlight 
blazoned  in  green  and  gold  like  the  initials  of  an 
old  missal ;  they  talked  as  one  friend  would  talk  to 
124 


MAX— OR    HIS    PICTURE 

another.  At  least  that  was  her  phrase,  and  she  ad- 
mitted to  herself  that  she  had  not  been  so  nearly 
happy  since  Elly  died.  "I  didn't  know  a  man  could 
be  so — so  kind,"  she  said. 

He  told  her  of  his  country  and  his  home ;  and  how 
he  loved  the  hills  that  his  fathers  had  always  owned, 
and  the  rugged,  simple,  faithful  people;  he  told  her 
of  the  plans  of  his  father  and  himself  for  them;  he 
told  her  of  his  father,  who  had  the  best  heart  in  the 
world,  but  was  credited  with  a  fierce  temper  simply 
because  his  voice  was  loud ;  and  his  mother,  who  was 
so  gentle  that  every  one  loved  her ;  and  his  handsome 
sister,  and  his  brother,  who  was  a  diplomat  and  far 
cleverer  than  he ;  and  his  little  brother  who  died  and 
would  have  no  one  carry  him  in  his  pain  but  Max 
("Ah,  he  was  the  most  clever  and  the  most  beautiful 
of  us  all!"),  and  Max,  his  little  nephew,  who  looked 
like  the  dead  boy.  "I  hope  you  will  see  my  home 
and  them  all,"  he  said ;  "to-morrow,  I  shall  see  them, 
then,  the  same  day,  I  shall  be  back  here — with  you." 

And  then,  by  degrees,  she  won  him  to  talk  of  his 
profession,  of  his  hopes,  his  ambitions,  his  ideals;  of 
all  those  intimate  and  cherished  things  which  lie  at 
the  bottom  of  the  soul  and  only  rise  for  a  friend's 


STORIES   THAT   END   WELL 

eyes.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  could  read  his  char- 
acter in  the  hints  given  by  his  words,  as  one  would 
fill  an  outline  sketch  with  perspective  and  details. 
There  was  certainly  a  fascination  in  this  revelation ; 
candor,  after  all,  was  a  virtue,  as  well  as  reticence. 
Perhaps  her  new  friend  was  a  little  mediaeval,  but 
he  was  as  refined  as  if  he  had  been  all  modern. 

By  now  they,  were  rattling  through  the  modern 
town  of  Heidelberg,  the  plain  walls  of  which  looked 
bare  after  the  lawless  pomp  of  carving  and  form  on 
the  old  castle ;  they  had  not  even  the  bizarre,  affected 
grace  of  the  architecture  then  decking  American 
countrysides.  But  Margaret  thought  how  homelike 
and  honest  the  houses  looked;  staunch  and  trusty, 
like  the  German.  Butler,  just  then,  was  praising 
American  buggies,  from  which  he  made  a  general 
transition  to  the  customs  of  society.  "In  America,  is 
it  not,"  says  he,  "the  young  ladies  drive  alone  with 
young  men?" 

"Yes,  very  often.    But  not  with  you?" 

"Oh,  no,  mein  fraulein,  this  is  the  first  time  I  am 
alone  with  a  young  lady!" 

She  had  called  herself  old  for  so  long  that  there 
was  a  distinct  pleasure  in  being  "a  young  lady"  to 
126 


MAX— OR   HIS    PICTURE 

him,  and  she  had  not  time  to  remember  it  partook 
«f  the  nature  of  deceit,  because  he  sent  a  wave  of 
confusion  over  her  by  continuing :  "In  America,  also, 
one  would  propose  marriage  to  a  lady,  herself,  be- 
fore to  her  father?" 

"It  is  our  custom,"  agreed  Margaret,  "but" — with 
her  prim  teacher's  air — "your  custom  is  far  more 
decorous." 

His  face  fell,  then  promptly  brightened.  "Per- 
haps it  would  be  best  to  speak  to  both,  so  near  the 
same  time  one  can.  But  this  is  another  thing  you 
must  explain  me.  How  is  it  most  preferable  to  the 
lady,  that  one  shall  write  or  shall  come — " 

"Oh,  write,"  said  Margaret  quickly.  How  silly 
of  her  to  suddenly  feel  so  frightened;  she  wished 
that  she  were  in  a  room  and  not  in  a  carriage  with 
him ;  involuntarily  she  shrank  back  into  her  own  cor- 
ner, and  she  found  that  she  was  playing  with  the 
soiled  and  frayed  edges  of  a  tear  in  the  cloth  of  the 
side-curtain  and  watching  her  pearl-colored  fingers. 
Those  gloves  she  had  put  on  new,  that  day.  How 
reckless!  But  she  had  not  the  resolution  to  desist. 
His  voice  dragged  a  little,  "Ah,  yes,  if  she  would 
refuse,  but  if — not?" 

127 


STORIES   THAT   END   WELL 

"In  any  case,"  said  she. 

"Look!"  he  exclaimed,  "at  the  sunset.  Ah,  is  it 
not  lovely?" 

Of  a  sudden  they  were  looking,  not  at  the  sun- 
set, but  into  each  other's  eyes ;  and  all  about  them 
was  that  wonderful,  transfiguring  glow,  and  it 
seemed  as  if  there  were  nothing  in  the  whole  world 
that  he  had  not  said. 

"Is  it  to  the  right,  Herr  Captain?"  asked  the 
driver,  turning  on  his  seat  to  divide  a  benign  and 
semi-intoxicated  smile  between  them. 

Then  it  was  hardly  a  moment  until  the  yellow 
stucco  of  the  pension  jumped  at  their  eyes,  around  a 
corner ;  and  there  were  the  clergyman's  widow  and 
the  teacher  at  the  door.  They  fell  upon  the  carriage 
in  a  clamor  of  explanation  and  sympathy ;  they  were 
at  her  side  when  he  bowed  over  her  hand  and  kissed 
it,  saying,  "Aufu'iederschcn" 

That  was  all.  There  was  never  any  more.  He 
did  not  come  again.  Or  if  he  came,  she  was  not 
there,  since  the  next  clay  they  were  on  their  way  to 
Bremen,  summoned  by  cable  to  her  sister's  deathbed. 
She  never  heard  from  him  or  of  him  again.  Yet  she 
had  left  her  American  address  with  his  aunt  for  any 
128 


MAX— OR    HIS    PICTURE 

letters  that  might  need  to  be  forwarded,  and  a  stiff 
little  note  of  thanks  and  farewell — a  perfectly  neu- 
tral note  such  as  any  friend  might  give  or  receive. 
There  followed  weeks  crowded  with  sorrow  and 
business  (the  sister  was  a  widow  without  children, 
and  she  shared  her  estate  with  her  other  sister) ; 
and  Margaret  imputed  her  deep  depression  to  these 
natural  and  sufficient  causes.  She  rated  herself  for 
vanity  in  reading  her  own  meanings  into  a  courteous 
young  man's  looks  and  his  intelligent  interest  in 
national  difference  of  manners.  She  fostered  her 
shame  with  the  New  Englander's  zest  for  self-tor- 
ture. But  one  afternoon,  without  warning,  there 
fell  upon  her  a  deep  and  hopeless  peace.  It  was  as 
if  some  invisible  power  controlled  and  changed  all 
the  currents  of  her  thought.  She  knew  that  her 
fiiend  was  not  faithless  or  careless;  he  was  dead. 
She  began  to  weep  gently,  thinking  pitifully  of  his 
old  father  with  the  loud  voice,  and  his  fragile  mother 
and  the  sister  and  brother  and  the  little  nephew. 
"Poor  people,"  she  murmured,  wishing,  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life,  to  make  some  sign  of  her  sorrow 
for  them  to  them,  she  who  always  paid  her  toll  of 
sympathy,  but  dreaded  it  and  knew  that  she  was 
129 


STORIES   THAT   END   WELL 

clumsy.  She  remembered  the  day  at  the  castle,  and 
went  over  again  each  word,  each  look.  A  sensation 
that  she  could  not  understand,  full  of  awe  and  sweet- 
ness, possessed  her.  It  was  indescribable,  unthink- 
able, but  it  was  also  irresistible.  Under  its  impulse 
she  went  to  a  trunk  in  another  room,  from  which 
she  had  not  yet  removed  all  the  contents,  and  took 
cut  her  Heidelberg  photographs.  She  said  to  her- 
>clf  that  she  would  look  at  the  scenes  of  that  day. 
In  her  search  she  came  upon  a  package  of  her  own 
pictures  which  had  come  the  morning  of  the  day 
that  she  had  gone.  She  could  not  remember  any 
details  of  receiving  them,  except  that  she  had  been 
at  the  photographer's  the  day  before  and  paid  for 
them.  When  they  came  she  was  in  too  great  agita- 
tion (they  were  just  packing)  to  more  than  fling 
them  into  a  tray.  She  could  not  tell  why  she  took 
the  cartes  out  of  the  envelope  and  ran  them  listlessly 
through  her  fingers ;  but  at  the  last  of  the  package 
she  uttered  a  cry.  The  last  carte  was  a  picture  of 
Max,  with  the  inscription  in  his  own  hand,  "Thine 
for  ever."  It  is  not  exact  to  say  that  with  the  find- 
ing of  the  picture  her  doubt  of  his  affection  for  her 
vanished ;  for  in  truth,  she  had  no  doubts,  the  pos- 
130 


MAX— OR    HIS    PICTURE 

session  was  too  absolute.  But  the  sight  came  upon 
her  as  the  presence  of  a  mortal  being,  alive  and  vis- 
ible, comes  on  one  when  he  enters  a  room.  And 
there  is  no  question  that  it  was  a  comfort;  if  she  had 
really  loved  Max,  at  this  time,  the  knowledge  of  his 
death  would  have  been  her  crudest  shock ;  for  then 
she  could  have  no  hope  to  meet  him  again  in  the 
world — no  hope  of  some  explanation  and  the  happi- 
ness of  life  together.  But  she  was  not  in  love  with 
the  young  German,  she  was  touched  by  his  admira- 
tion, she  admired  him  tenderly,  she  felt  the  moving 
of  a  subtle  attraction  which  she  called  friendship 
and  which  might  pass  into  a  keener  feeling ;  but  she 
did  not  love  him.  Not  then.  Therefore,  she  felt 
a  sweetness  in  her  pain;  she  could  respect  herself 
once  more ;  she  had  a  new  and  mystical  joy ;  for  was 
she  not  beloved  above  women  ?  Had  not  her  lover 
come  to  her,  through  what  strange  paths  who  may 
know,  to  comfort  her?  This  is  the  story  of  the 
picture.  She  could  not  tell  it.  Nor  did  she ;  but  she 
hung  Max's  portrait  on  the  walls  of  her  little  parlor; 
and  she  hung  opposite  a  picture  of  the  castle;  and 
from  that  day,  never  a  day  passed  that  it  did  not 
influence  her.  She  used  to  think  her  thoughts  be- 


STORIES    THAT    END    WELL 

fore  it.  She  came  to  it  with  her  grief  for  the  loss 
of  kindred  and  friends,  with  her  loneliness,  with  her 
anxieties,  with  her  aspirations,  her  plans,  her  cares 
for  others,  her  slowly  dawning  interests  and  af- 
fections. She  was  a  reticent  woman,  who  might 
never  have  allowed  her  heart  to  expand  to  her  hus- 
band himself,  beyond  a  certain  limit;  but  she  hid 
nothing  from  Max.  In  time,  she  fell  into  the  habit 
of  talking  to  the  picture.  She  called  him  Max.  The 
first  time  she  spoke  his  name  she  blushed.  She  made 
her  toilets  for  him  more  than  for  the  world;  but 
whether  Max  could  admire  them  or  not,  it  is  certain 
that  the  girls  knew  every  change  in  her  pretty  gowns. 
Her  sense  of  having  been  loved  had  its  effect  on  her 
manner,  and  a  deeper  effect  on  her  heart.  At  thirty 
she  was  a  New  England  nun ;  at  forty  she  was  the 
woman  who  understands.  The  love  which  the 
shrinking  and  critical  girl  repelled  at  its  first  step 
toward  her,  without  knowing,  the  woman  who  pitied 
and  who  understood,  attracted,  quite  as  uncon- 
sciously. 

"It  is  very  queer,  Max,"  she  said,  "that  in  my  old 
age  men  should  want  to  marry  me.  But  I  like  you 
best." 

132 


MAX— OR    HIS    PICTURE 

Only  the  day  before,  she  had  said  that ;  and  she 
had  said,  "I  am  happy,  Max.  Isn't  it  strange !  But 
I  am."  Only  yesterday — and  now  there  was  noth- 
ing. The  Max  that  she  had  grown  to  love,  with  the 
gradual,  imperceptible  advance  of  affection,  sweet 
to  her  shy  nature — that  Max  had  never  been.  No 
doubt  all  the  while,  over  in  Germany,  a  stout  and 
phlegmatic  German  landlord  had  been  caring  for 
his  vineyards  and  playing  the  war  lord  in  the  land- 
wehr  and  living  very  comfortably  with  the  dough- 
faced  German  girl  whose  hair  was  lighter  than  her 
complexion,  whom  the  countess  wanted  him  to 
marry;  a  man  as  unlike  the  high-souled  knight  of 
her  fancy  as — as  she,  herself,  was  unlike  the  girl's 
image !  Worst  of  all  was  her  own  weak,  false  be- 
havior. "No,"  she  cried,  in  an  access  of  bitterness, 
"the  worst  is  that  I  can't  feel  that  the  worst ;  I  can 
only  feel  I  have  lost  him,  for  ever !  I  don't  seem  to 
mind  that  I  have  lost  myself !" 

Now  she  began  to  pace  the  room,  trying  to  think 
clearly.  Was  it  her  duty  to  tell  Florence  the  story 
an'd  let  her  tell  the  girls?  The  red-hot  agony  of  the 
idea  seemed  to  her  excited  conscience  an  intimation 
that  it  was  her  duty  from  which  she  shrank  because 
133 


STORIES   THAT   END   .WELL 

she  was  a  selfish,  hysterical,  dishonorable  coward. 
Horrible  as  such  abasement  would  be,  if  it  were  her 
duty,  she  could  do  it ;  what  she  could  not,  what  she 
would  not  do,  was  to  tear  the  veil  from  that  pure 
and  mystical  passion  which  had  been  the  flower  of 
her  heart.  "Not  if  it  cost  me  my  soul,"  she  said, 
with  the  frozen  quiet  of  despair;  "it  is  awful,  but  I 
can't  do  it !"  One  thing  did  remain ;  she  could  re- 
move the  picture.  That  false  witness  of  what  had 
never  been  should  go.  No  eyes  should  ever  fall  on 
it  again.  It  should  never  deceive  more.  She  walked 
toward  it  firmly.  She  lifted  her  hand — and  it  fell. 
"I  can't !"  she  moaned.  "I'll  do  it  to-morrow."  She 
could  not  remember,  in  years,  so  weak  a  compromise 
offered  her  conscience. 

But  she  felt  a  sense  of  respite,  almost  relief,  once 
having  decided,  and  she  recovered  her  composure 
enough  to  go  to  her  chamber  and  bathe  her  eyes. 
While  she  was  thus  engaged  she  heard  a  knock.  "It 
is  he,"  she  said  quietly ;  "well,  the  sooner  the  better." 

It  was  he ;  he  had  come  earlier  than  he  expected, 

he  explained ;  he  was  most  grateful  for  Miss  Wing's 

kind  message.    He  looked  like  his  uncle,   as  the 

members  of  a  family  will  look  alike.     He  was  not 

134 


MAX— OR   HIS    PICTURE 

so  tall ;  he  was  not  so  handsome.  Perhaps  most  peo- 
ple would  call  him  more  graceful.  And  his  English 
was  faultless ;  he  must  have  spoken  it  from  his  child- 
hood. In  the  midst  of  his  first  sentences,  before  they 
had  permitted  him  to  take  a  chair,  his  eyes  traveled 
past  Miss  Wing's  face.  She  perceived  that  he  saw 
the  picture ;  she  knew  that  she  grew  pale ;  but,  to  her 
amazement,  a  calm  like  the  calm  which  had  wrapped 
her  senses  on  the  day  of  her  finding  the  picture, 
closed  about  her  again.  "I  beg  pardon?"  said  he. 

"Yes,  that  is  Count  von  Butler's  portrait,"  said 
she,  in  a  clear  voice,  without  emotion.  He  was  not 
so  composed.  "Then  it  was  you,"  he  said.  Follow- 
ing her  example,  he  took  a  chair  and  looked  earn- 
estly at  the  pictured  face.  "When  Miss  Raimund 
spoke  of  you  so  warmly,  I  noticed  that  the  name  was 
the  same,  and  I  determined  to  inquire,  but  it  seemed 
to  me  unlikely.  Yet  it  is.  Miss  Wing,  I  have  a 
message  to  you,  from  my  uncle." 

She  noticed  that  there  were  gold  motes  in  the  air; 
and  his  pleasant,  blond  face  seemed  to  wander 
through  them ;  the  room  was  full  of  sunlight. 

"I  was  with  him  when  he  died." 

That  was  a  strange  thing  to  hear  when  the  mes- 
135 


STORIES   THAT    END    WELL 

sage  of  his  uncle's  death  had  come  to  him  in  another 
country ;  she  hoped  that  her  brain  was  not  going  to 
play  her  false. 

"It  was  fifteen  years  ago  last  July,  you  know.  I 
never  knew  how  many  details  you  received,  or  only 
the  bare  fact  in  the  papers." 

Fifteen  years !  fifteen  years !  What  was  that  date 
he  was  giving?  That  was  the  day  on  which  she 
sailed  for  America,  the  day  after — what  was  that 
story  he  was  telling  of  a  visit  and  a  fire  and  a  child 
rescued  and  an  accident  ?  But  still  she  listened  with 
the  same  iron  composure.  The  next  words  she 
heard  distinctly. 

"It  was  like  him  to  lose  his  life  that  way;  and  he 
did  not  grudge  it.  Yet  it  was  hard  that  I  should  be 
the  only  one  of  his  blood  with  him.  He  could  speak 
with  difficulty  when  he  told  me  to  take  a  lock  of  hair 
and  his  signet  ring  to  you.  He  dictated  the  address, 
himself,  to  me.  'You  must  be  sure  and  take  it,'  he 
said.  'It  is  to  the  lady  that  I  hoped  would  be  my 
betrothed ;  you  must  tell  grandmamma  about  it,  too. 
She  has  my  picture  and  she  knows — but  tell  her' — 
and  then,  I  think  his  mind  must  have  wandered  a 
little,  for  he  smiled  brightly  at  me,  saying,  Til  tell 
136 


MAX— OR   HIS    PICTURE 

her,  myself/  and  then  the  doctors  came.  He  said 
nothing  more,  only  once,  they  told  me,  he  murmured 
something  about  his  betrothed.  But  I  had  the  ring ; 
he  took  it  off  his  finger  and  kissed  it  and  gave  it  to 
me.  Child  as  I  was,  I  knew  that  it  was  sacred.  I 
wrapped  it  in  the  paper,  and  afterward  I  put  the 
lock  of  hair  beside  it.  So  soon  as  I  could,  I  went  to 
Heidelberg,  to  the  pension.  You  had  gone  and  there 
was  no  address,  no  trace — " 

"I  left  my  address  with  the  countess — " 
"My   aunt   is  dead,"    said   the   young   German 
gravely.    "I  would  not  criticize  her,  but  she  had  her 
own  choice  of  a  wife  for  my  uncle;  I  do  not  think 
one  could  trust  her  with  addresses." 

"We  all  gave  ours  to  her  to  give  to  Frau  Miiller." 
"That  is  why,  then,  I  could  not  find  you.  My 
grandmother  also  tried.  But  you  were  gone.  I 
thought  of  the  banks,  long  after,  but  I  found  noth- 
ing. Often  it  has  seemed  dreadful  that  you  should 
learn  of  this  only  through  the  papers.  But  I  could 
not  tell  whether — anything.  When  I  came  to  Amer- 
ica, I  confess  it  was  always  in  my  mind.  I  always 
carried  my  uncle's  little  packet  with  me.  I  will  have 
it  sent  to  you." 

137 


STORIES   THAT   END   WELL 

"Excuse  me,"  said  Miss  Wing  gently.  "Will  you 
please  bring  me  the  glass  of  water — I — am  afraid 
— I  can't  walk  to  it." 

But  she  would  not  let  him  pour  the  water  on  his 
handkerchief  to  bathe  her  head.  She  sipped  the 
water,  and  very  pale,  but  quite  herself,  brought  him 
back  to  his  own  matters.  She  found  that  it  was  a 
cousin,  miscalled  an  uncle,  in  the  German  manner, 
who  had  died.  It  did  not  seem  to-  her  that  Max's 
nephew  could  be  unworthy  of  any  girl ;  yet  she  con- 
scientiously questioned  him  regarding  his  worldly 
affairs,  for  Florence  was  an  only  daughter  whose 
father  had  great  possessions  and  a  distrust  of  ad- 
venturers, and  at  last  she  sent  him  forth  to  walk  in 
the  grove  with  his  sweetheart.  "And  speak  to  her," 
she  said,  with  a  look  that  sank  into  his  heart ;  "it  is 
the  American  way;  don't  wait  to  write,  the  Amer- 
ican way  is  best." 

So,  at  last,  she  was  alone.  Alone  with  her  lover 
who  had  always  been  true;  whose  love  many  waters 
could  not  quench,  and  it  was  stronger  than  death. 
She  often  pondered,  afterward,  whether  there  had 
not  been  some  note  written  to  her  and  sent  with  the 
photographs;  whether  the  countess  might  not  have 
138 


MAX— OR   HIS    PICTURE 

tampered  with  the  package,  taking  the  note,  but  not 
suspecting  the  picture.  But  none  of  these  puzzles 
troubled  her  to-day.  She  stood  in  front  of  the  pic- 
ture. All  the  years,  an  obscure  and  virginal  shyness 
had  withheld  her  from  ever  overstepping  her  first 
attitude.  She  told  him  every  thought  of  her  heart 
in  regard  to  others  and  herself.  He  was  her  dearest 
friend.  She  called  him  "Max"  and  "my  friend." 
Recalling  the  French  use  of  the  latter  term,  she  used 
it  sometimes  with  a  little  flutter  of  the  heart.  But 
those  innocent  endearments  that  a  woman  keeps  for 
her  lover's  portrait — to  make  amends  for  not  prof- 
fering them  of  free  will  to  the  poor  fellow  himself — 
these  it  would  have  shocked  her  to  imagine.  She 
never  touched  the  picture,  save  reverently  to  dust  it, 
to  take  it  down  when  she  went  away,  to  replace  it 
in  its  station  when  she  returned.  But  now,  trem- 
bling, yet  not  blushing,  she  took  the  picture  into  her 
hands.  She  looked  long  into  its  eyes ;  she  kissed  it 
with  a  light  and  timid  kiss,  and  swiftly  hid  the 
smiling  face  against  her  heart,  pressing  the  frame 
in  both  hands,  and  touching  it  with  her  cheek  bent 
over  it,  while  she  whispered :  "You  did  tell  me.  You 
came  back  and  told  me.  I  love  you.  Max,  my 
knight — my  husband!" 

139 


THE  STOUT  MISS  HOPKINS' 
BICYCLE 

THERE  was  a  skeleton  in  Mrs.  Margaret  El- 
lis' closet ;  the  same  skeleton  abode  also  in  the 
closet  of  Miss  Lorania  Hopkins. 

The  skeleton — which  really  does  not  seem  a 
proper  word — was  the  dread  of  growing  stout 
They  were  more  afraid  of  flesh  than  of  sin.  Yet 
they  were  both  good  women.  Mrs.  Ellis  regularly 
attended  church,  and  could  always  be  depended  on 
to  show  hospitality  to  convention  delegates,  whether 
clerical  or  lay ;  she  was  a  liberal  subscriber  to  every 
good  work ;  she  was  almost  the  only  woman  in  the 
church  aid  society  that  never  lost  her  temper  at  the 
soul-vexing  time  of  the  church  fair;  and  she  had  a 
larger  clientele  of  regular  pensioners  than  any  one 
in  town,  unless  it  were  her  friend,  Miss  Hopkins, 
who  was  "so  good  to  the  poor"  that  never  a  tramp 
slighted  her  kitchen.  Miss  Hopkins  was  as  amiable 
as  Mrs.  Ellis,  and  always  put  her  name  under  that 
140 


THE    STOUT    MISS    HOPKINS'  BICYCLE 

of  Mrs.  Ellis,  with  exactly  the  same  amount,  on  the 
subscription  papers.  She  could  have  given  more, 
for  she  had  the  larger  income ;  but  she  had  no  desire 
to  outshine  her  friend,  whom  she  admired  as  the 
most  charming  of  women. 

Mrs.  Ellis,  indeed,  was  agreeable  as  well  as  good, 
and  a  pretty  woman  to  the  bargain,  if  she  did  not 
choose  to  be  weighed  before  people.  Miss  Hopkins 
often  told  her  that  she  was  not  really  stout;  she 
merely  was  a  plump,  trig  little  figure.  Miss  Hop- 
kins, alas !  was  really  stout.  The  two  waged  a  war- 
fare against  the  flesh  equal  to  the  apostle's  in  vigor, 
although  so  much  less  deserving  of  praise. 

Mrs.  Ellis  drove  her  cook  to  distraction  with 
divers  dieting  systems,  from  Banting's  and  Doctor 
Salisbury's  to  the  latest  exhortations  of  some  un- 
known newspaper  prophet.  She  bought  elaborate 
gymnastic  appliances,  and  swung  dumbbells  and 
rode  imaginary  horses  and  propelled  imaginary 
boats.  She  ran  races  with  a  professional  trainer, 
and  she  studied  the  principles  of  Delsarte,  and  sol- 
emnly whirled  on  one  foot  and  swayed  her  body  and 
rolled  her  head  and  hopped  and  kicked  and  genu- 
flected in  company  with  eleven  other  stout  and  ear- 
141 


STORIES   THAT   END   WELL 

nest  matrons  and  one  slim  and  giggling  girl  who 
almost  choked  at  every  lesson.  In  all  these  exer- 
cises Miss  Hopkins  faithfully  kept  her  company, 
which  was  the  easier,  as  Miss  Hopkins  lived  in  the 
next  house,  a  conscientious  Colonial  mansion  with 
all  the  modern  conveniences  hidden  beneath  the  old- 
fashioned  pomp. 

And  yet,  despite  these  struggles  and  self-denials, 
it  must  be  told  that  Margaret  Ellis  and  Lorania 
Hopkins  were  little  thinner  for  their  warfare.  Still, 
as  Shuey  Cardigan,  the  trainer,  told  Mrs.  Ellis, 
there  was  no  knowing  what  they  might  have 
weighed  had  they  not  struggled. 

"It  ain't  only  the  fat  that's  on  ye,  moind  ye," 
says  Shuey,  with  a  confidential  sympathy  of  mien; 
"it's  what  ye'd  naturally  be  getting  in  addition. 
And  first  ye've  got  to  peel  off  that,  and  then  ye 
come  down  to  the  other." 

Shuey  was  so  much  the  most  successful  of  Mrs. 
Ellis'  reducers  that  his  words  were  weighty.  And 
when  at  last  Shuey  said,  "I  got  what  you  need," 
Mrs.  Ellis  listened.  "You  need  a  bike,  no  less," 
says  Shuey. 

"But  I  never  could  ride  one!"  said  Margaret, 
142 


THE    STOUT   MISS    HOPKINS'  BICYCLE 

opening  her  pretty  brown  eyes  and  wrinkling  her 
Grecian  forehead. 

"You'd  ride  in  six  lessons,"  pronounced  Shuey. 

"But  how  would  I  look,  Cardigan?" 

"You'd  look  noble,  ma'am !" 

"What  do  you  consider  the  best  wheel,  Cardi- 
gan?" 

Fear  of  being  accused  of  advertising  prevents  my 
giving  Cardigan's  answer;  it  is  enough  that  the 
wheel  glittered  at  Mrs.  Ellis'  door  the  very  next 
day,  and  that  a  large  pasteboard  box  was  delivered 
by  the  expressman  the  very  next  week.  He  went  on 
to  Miss  Hopkins',  and  delivered  the  twin  of  the 
box,  with  a  similar  yellow  printed  card  bearing  the 
impress  of  the  same  great  firm  on  the  inside  of  the 
box  cover.  For  Margaret  had  hied  her  to  Lorania 
Hopkins  the  instant  Shuey  was  gone.  She  pre- 
sented herself  breathless,  a  little  to  the  embarrass- 
ment of  Lorania,  who  was  sitting  with  her  niece 
before  a  large  box  of  cracker-jack. 

"It's  a  new  kind  of  candy;  I  was  just  tasting  it, 
Maggie,"  faltered  she,  while  the  niece,  a  girl  of 
nineteen,  with  the  inhuman  spirits  of  her  age, 
laughed  aloud. 

H3 


STORIES   THAT    END    WELL 

"You  needn't  mind  me,"  said  Mrs.  Ellis  cheer- 
fully; "I'm  eating  potatoes  now!" 

"Oh,  Maggie!"  Miss  Hopkins  breathed  the  words 
between  envy  and  disapproval. 

Mrs.  Ellis  tossed  her  brown  head  airily,  not  a  whit 
abashed.  "And  I  had  beer  for  luncheon,  and  I'm 
going  to  have  champagne  for  dinner." 

"Maggie,  how  do  you  dare?  Did  they — did  they 
taste  good?" 

"They  tasted  heavenly,  Lorania.  Pass  me  the 
candy.  I  am  going  to  try  something  new — the  thin- 
nmgest  thing  there  is.  I  read  in  the  paper  of  one 
woman  who  lost  forty  pounds  in  three  months,  and 
is  losing  still!" 

"If  it  is  obesity  pills,  I — " 

"It  isn't ;  it's  a  bicycle.  Lorania,  you  and  I  must 
ride !  Sibyl  Hopkins,  you  heartless  child,  what  are 
you  laughing  at?" 

Lorania  rose;  in  the  glass  over  the  mantel  her 
figure  returned  her  gaze.  There  was  no  mistake 
(except  that,  as  is  often  the  case  with  stout  people, 
that  glass  always  increased  her  size),  she  was  a  stout 
lady.  She  was  taller  than  the  average  of  women, 
and  well  proportioned,  and  still  light  on  her  feet; 
144 


THE    STOUT   MISS    HOPKINS'  BICYCLE 

but  she  could  not  blink  away  the  records;  she  was 
heavy  on  the  scales.  Did  she  stand  looking  at  her- 
self squarely,  her  form  was  shapely  enough,  al- 
though larger  than  she  could  wish ;  but  the  full  force 
of  the  revelation  fell  when  she  allowed  herself  a 
profile  view,  she  having  what  is  called  "a  round 
waist,"  and  being  almost  as  large  one  way  as  an- 
other. Yet  Lorania  was  only  thirty-three  years  old, 
and  was  of  no  mind  to  retire  from  society,  and  have 
a  special  phaeton  built  for  her  use,  and  hear  from 
her  mother's  friends  how  much  her  mother  weighed 
before  her  death. 

"How  should  /  look  on  a  wheel  ?"  she  asked,  even 
as  Mrs.  Ellis  had  asked  before;  and  Mrs.  Ellis 
stoutly  answered,  "You'd  look  noble!" 

"Shuey  will  teach  us,"  she  went  on,  "and  we  can 
have  a  track  made  in  your  pasture,  where  nobody 
can  see  us  learning.  Lorania,  there's  nothing  like  it. 
Let  me  bring  you  the  bicycle  edition  of  Harper's 
Bazar." 

Miss  Hopkins  capitulated  at  once,  and  sat  down 

to  order  her  costume,  while  Sibyl,  the  niece,  revelled 

silently  in  visions  of  a  new  bicycle  which  should 

presently  revert  to  her.  "For  it's  ridiculous,  auntie's 

145 


STORIES   THAT   END   .WELL 

thinking  of  riding!"  Miss  Sibyl  considered.  "She 
would  be  a  figure  of  fun  on  a  wheel ;  besides,  she  can 
never  learn  in  this  world!" 

Yet  Sibyl  was  attached  to  her  aunt,  and  enjoyed 
visiting  Hopkins  Manor,  as  Lorania  had  named  her 
new  house,  into  which  she  moved  on  the  same  day 
that  she  joined  the  Colonial  Dames,  by  right  of  her 
ancestor  the  great  and  good  divine  commemorated 
by  Mrs.  Stowe.  Lorania's  friends  were  all  fond  of 
her,  she  was  so  good-natured  and  tolerant,  with 
a  touch  of  dry  humor  in  her  vision  of  things, 
r.nd  not  the  least  a  Puritan  in  her  frank  enjoy- 
ment of  ease  and  luxury.  Nevertheless,  Lorania 
had  a  good,  able-bodied  New  England  conscience, 
capable  of  staying  awake  nights  without  flinching; 
and  perhaps  from  her  stanch  old  Puritan  forefathers 
she  inherited  her  simple  integrity,  so  that  she  neither 
lied  nor  cheated — even  in  the  small  whitewashed 
manner  of  her  sex — and  valued  loyalty  above  most 
of  the  virtues.  She  had  an  innocent  pride  in  her 
godly  and  martial  ancestry,  which  was  quite  on  the 
surface,  and  led  people  who  did  not  know  her  to 
consider  her  haughty. 

For  fifteen  years  she  had  been  an  orphan,  the 
146 


THE    STOUT    MISS    HOPKINS'  BICYCLE 

mistress  of  a  very  large  estate.  No  doubt  she  had 
been  sought  often  in  marriage,  but  never  until  lately 
had  Lorania  seriously  thought  of  marrying.  Sibyl 
said  that  she  was  too  unsentimental  to  marry. 
Really  she  was  too  romantic.  She  had  a  longing  to 
be  loved,  not  in  the  quiet,  matter-of-fact  manner  of 
her  suitors,  but  with  the  passion  of  the  poets.  There- 
fore the  presence  of  another  skeleton  in  Mrs.  Ellis' 
closet,  because  she  knew  about  a  certain  handsome 
Italian  marquis  who  at  this  period  was  conducting 
an  impassioned  wooing  by  mail.  Margaret  did  not 
fancy  the  marquis.  He  was  not  an  American.  He 
would  take  Lorania  away.  She  thought  his  very 
virtue  florid,  and  suspected  that  he  had  learned  his 
love-making  in  a  bad  school.  She  dropped  dark 
hints  that  frightened  Lorania,  who  would  some- 
times piteously  demand,  "Don't  you  think  he  could 
care  for  me — for — for  myself?"  Margaret  knew 
that  she  had  an  overweening  distrust  of  her  own  ap- 
pearance. How  many  tears  she  had  shed  first  and 
last  over  her  unhappy  plumpness  it  would  be  hard  to 
reckon.  She  made  no  account  of  her  satin  skin,  or 
her  glossy  black  hair,  or  her  lustrous  violet  eyes 
with  their  long  black  lashes,  or  her  flashing  white 
147 


STORIES    THAT    END   .WELL 

teeth;  she  glanced  dismally  at  her  shape  and  scorn- 
fully at  her  features,  good,  honest,  irregular  Amer- 
ican features,  that  might  not  satisfy  a  Greek  critic, 
but  suited  each  other  and  pleased  her  countrymen. 
And  then  she  would  sigh  heavily  over  her  figure. 
Her  friend  had  not  the  heart  to  impute  the  mar- 
quis' beautiful,  artless  compliments  to  mercenary 
motives.  After  all,  the  Italian  was  a  good  fellow, 
according  to  the  point  of  view  of  his  own  race,  if  he 
did  intend  to  live  on  his  wife's  money,  and  had  a 
very  varied  assortment  of  memories  of  women. 

But  Margaret  dreaded  and  disliked  him  all  the 
more  for  his  good  qualities.  To-day  this  secret  ap- 
prehension flung  a  cloud  over  the  bicycle  enthusi- 
asm. She  could  not  help  wondering  whether  at  this 
moment  Lorania  was  not  thinking  of  the  marquis, 
who  rode  a  wheel  and  a  horse  admirably. 

"Aunt  Lorania,"  said  Sibyl,  "there  comes  Mr. 
Winslow.  Shall  I  run  out  and  ask  him  about  those 
cloth -of-gold  roses?  The  aphides  are  eating  them 
all  up." 

"Yes,  to  be  sure,  dear;  but  don't  let  Ferguson 
suspect  what  you  are  talking  of ;  he  might  feel  hurt." 

Ferguson  was  the  gardener.  Miss  Hopkins  left 
148 


THE    STOUT    MISS    HOPKINS'  BICYCLE 

her  note  to  go  to  the  window.  Below  she  saw  a 
mettled  horse,  with  tossing  head  and  silken  skin, 
restlessly  fretting  on  his  bit  and  pawing  the  dust  in 
front  of  the  fence,  while  his  rider,  hat  in  hand, 
talked  with  the  young  girl.  He  was  a  little  man,  a 
very  little  man,  in  a  gray  business  suit  of  the  best 
cut  and  material.  An  air  of  careful  and  dainty  neat- 
ness was  diffused  about  both  horse  and  rider.  He 
bent  toward  Miss  Sibyl's  charming  person  a  thin, 
alert,  fair  face.  His  head  was  finely  shaped,  the 
brown  hair  worn  away  a  little  on  the  temples.  He 
smiled  gravely  at  intervals;  the  smile  told  that  he 
had  a  dimple  in  his  cheek. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Mrs.  Ellis,  "whether  Mr.  Wins- 
low  can  have  a  penchant  for  Sibyl  ?" 

Lorania  opened  her  eyes.  At  this  moment  Mr. 
Winslow  had  caught  sight  of  her  at  the  window,  and 
he  bowed  almost  to  his  saddle-bow ;  Sibyl  was  saying 
something  at  which  she  laughed,  and  he  visibly  red- 
dened. It  was  a  peculiarity  of  his  that  his  color 
turned  easily.  In  a  second  his  hat  was  on  his  head 
and  his  horse  bounded  half  across  the  road. 

"Hardly,  I  think,"  said  Lorania.  "How  well  he 
rides!  I  never  knew  any  one  ride  better — in  this 
country." 

149 


STORIES   THAT    END    WELL 

"I  suppose  Sibyl  would  ridicule  such  a  thing," 
said  Mrs.  Ellis,  continuing  her  own  train  of  thought, 
and  yet  vaguely  disturbed  by  the  last  sentence. 

"Why  should  she?" 

"Well,  he  is  so  little,  for  one  thing,  and  she  is  so 
tall.  And  then  Sibyl  thinks  a  great  deal  of  social 
position." 

"He  is  a  Winslow,"  said  Lorania,  arching  her 
neck  unconsciously — "a  lineal  descendant  from 
Kenelm  Winslow,  who  came  over  in  the  May — " 

"But  his  mother — " 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  his  mother  before 
she  came  here.  Oh,  of  course  I  know  the  gossip 
that  she  was  a  niece  of  the  overseer  at  a  village  poor- 
house,  and  that  her  husband  quarrelled  with  all  his 
family  and  married  her  in  the  poorhouse,  and  I 
know  that  when  he  died  here  she  would  not  take  a 
cent  from  the  Winslows,  nor  let  them  have  the  boy. 
She  is  the  meekest-looking  little  woman,  but  she 
must  have  an  iron  streak  in  her  somewhere,  for  she 
was  left  without  enough  money  to  pay  the  funeral 
expenses,  and  she  educated  the  boy  and  accumulated 
enough  money  to  pay  for  this  place  they  have. 

"She  used  to  run  a  laundry,  and  made  money; 
150 


THE    STOUT    MISS    HOPKINS'  BICYCLE 

but  when  Cyril  got  a  place  in  the  bank  she  sold  out 
the  laundry  and  went  into  chickens  and  vegetables ; 
she  told  somebody  that  it  wasn't  so  profitable  as  the 
laundry,  but  it  was  more  genteel,  and  Cyril  being 
now  in  a  position  of  trust  at  the  bank,  she  must 
consider  him.  Cyril  swept  out  the  bank.  People 
laughed  about  it,  but,  do  you  know,  I  rather  liked 
Mrs.  Winslow  for  it.  She  isn't  in  the  least  an  as- 
sertive woman.  How  long  have  we  been  up  here, 
Maggie  ?  Isn't  it  four  years  ?  And  they  have  been 
our  next-door  neighbors,  and  she  has  never  been  in- 
side the  house.  Nor  he  either,  for  that  matter,  ex- 
cept once  when  it  took  fire,  you  know,  and  he  came 
in  with  that  funny  little  chemical  engine  tucked  un- 
der his  arm,  and  took  off  his  hat  in  the  same  prim, 
polite  way  that  he  takes  it  off  when  he  talks  to 
Sibyl,  and  said,  'If  you'll  excuse  me  offering  advice, 
Miss  Hopkins,  it  is  not  necessary  to  move  anything ; 
it  mars  furniture  very  much  to  move  it  at  a  fire.  I 
think,  if  you  will  allow  me,  I  can  extinguish  this.' 
And  he  did,  too,  didn't  he,  as  neatly  and  as  coolly  as 
if  it  were  only  adding  up  a  column  of  figures.  And 
offered  me  the  engine  as  a  souvenir  of  the  occasion 
afterward." 


STORIES   THAT    END    WELL 

"Lorania,  you  never  told  me  that!" 

"It  seemed  like  making  fun  of  him,  when  he  had 
been  so  kind.  I  declined  as  civilly  as  I  could.  I 
hope  I  didn't  hurt  his  feelings.  I  meant  to  pay  a 
visit  to  his  mother  and  ask  them  to  dinner,  but  you 
know  I  went  to  England  that  week,  and  somehow 
when  I  came  back  it  was  difficult.  It  seems  a  little 
odd  we  never  have  seen  more  of  the  Winslows,  but 
I  fancy  they  don't  want  either  to  intrude  or  to  be 
intruded  on.  But  he  is  certainly  very  obliging  about 
the  garden.  Think  of  all  the  slips  and  flowers  he 
has  given  us,  and  the  advice — 

"All  passed  over  the  fence.  It  is  funny  our  neigh- 
borly good  offices  which  we  render  at  arm's-length. 
How  long  have  you  known  him?" 

"Oh,  a  long  time.  He  is  cashier  of  my  bank,  you 
know.  First  he  was  teller,  then  assistant  cashier, 
and  now  for  five  years  he  has  been  cashier.  The 
president  wants  to  resign  and  let  him  be  president, 
but  he  hardly  has  enough  stock  for  that.  But  Oliver 
says"  (Oliver  was  Miss  Hopkins'  brother)  "that 
there  isn't  a  shrewder  or  straighter  banker  in  the 
state.  Oliver  likes  him.  He  says  he  is  a  sandy  lit- 
tle fellow." 

152 


THE    STOUT    MISS    HOPKINS'  BICYCLE 

"Well,  he  is,"  assented  Mrs.  Ellis.  "It  isn't  many 
cashiers  would  let  robbers  stab  them  and  shoot  them 
and  leave  them  for  dead  rather  than  give  up  the 
combination  of  the  safe !" 

"He  wouldn't  take  a  cent  for  it,  either,  and  he 
saved  ever  so  many  thousand  dollars.  Yes,  he  is 
brave.  I  went  to  the  same  school  with  him  once, 
and  saw  him  fight  a  big  boy  twice  his  size — such  a 
nasty  boy,  who  called  me  'Fatty,'  and  made  a  kiss- 
ing noise  with  his  lips  just  to  scare  me — and  poor 
little  Cyril  Winslow  got  awfully  beaten,  and  when  I 
saw  him  on  the  ground,  with  his  nose  bleeding  and 
that  big  brute  pounding  him,  I  ran  to  the  water- 
bucket,  and  poured  the  whole  bucket  on  that  big 
bullying  boy  and  stopped  the  fight,  just  as  the  teacher 
got  on  the  scene.  I  cried  over  little  Cyril  Winslow. 
He  was  crying  himself.  'I  ain't  crying  because  he 
hurt  me,'  he  sobbed ;  Tm  crying  because  I'm  so  mad 
I  didn't  lick  him!'  I  wonder  if  he  remembers  that 
episode?" 

"Perhaps,"  said  Mrs.  Ellis. 

"Maggie,  what  makes  you  think  he  is  falling  in 
love  with  Sibyl  ?" 

Mrs.  Ellis  laughed.  "I  dare  say  he  isn't  in  love 
153 


STORIES   THAT   END   ,WELL 

with  Sibyl,"  said  she.  "I  think  the  main  reason  was 
his  always  riding  by  here  instead  of  taking  the 
shorter  road  down  the  other  street." 

"Does  he  always  ride  by  here?    I  hadn't  noticed." 
"Always!"  said  Mrs.  Ellis.     "I  had  noticed." 
"I  am  sorry  for  him,"  said  Lorania,  musingly.    "I 
think  Sibyl  is  very  much  taken  with  that  young 
Captain  Carr  at  the  Arsenal.     Young  girls  always 
affect  the  army.     He  is  a  nice  fellow,  but  I  don't 
think  he  is  the  man  Winslow  is.    Now,  Maggie,  ad- 
vise me  about  the  suit.    I  don't  want  to  look  like  the 
escaped  fat  lady  of  a  museum." 

Lorania  thought  no  more  of  Sibyl's  love  affairs. 
If  she  thought  of  the  Winslows,  it  was  to  wish  that 
Mrs.  Winslow  would  sell  or  rent  her  pasture,  which, 
in  addition  to  her  own  and  Mrs.  Ellis'  pastures 
thrown  into  one,  would  make  such  a  delightful  bi- 
cycle track. 

The  Winslow  house  was  very  different  from  the 
two  villas  that  were  the  pride  of  Fairport.  A  little 
story  and  a  half  cottage  peeped  out  on  the  road  be- 
hind the  tall  maples  that  were  planted  when  Wins- 
low  was  a  boy.  But  there  was  a  wonderful  green 
velvet  lawn,  and  the  tulips  and  sweet  peas  and  pan- 
154 


THE    STOUT    MISS    HOPKINS'  BICYCLE 

sies  that  blazed  softly  nearer  the  house  were  as 
beautiful  as  those  over  which  Miss  Lorania's  gar- 
dener toiled  and  worried. 

Mrs.  Winslow  was  a  little  woman  who  showed  the 
fierce  struggle  of  her  early  life  only  in  the  deeper 
lines  between  her  delicate  eyebrows  and  the  expres- 
sion of  melancholy  patience  in  her  brown  eyes. 

She  always  wore  a  widow's  cap  and  a  black  gown. 
In  the  mornings  she  donned  a  blue  figured  apron  of 
stout  and  serviceable  stuff;  in  the  afternoon,  an 
apron  of  that  sheer  white  lawn  used  by  bishops  and 
smart  young  waitresses.  Of  an  afternoon,  in  warm 
weather,  she  was  accustomed  to  sit  on  the  eastern 
piazza,  next  to  the  Hopkins  place,  and  rock  as  she 
sewed.  She  was  thus  sitting  and  sewing  when  she 
beheld  an  extraordinary  procession  cross  the  Hop- 
kins lawn.  First  marched  the  tall  trainer,  Shuey 
Cardigan,  who  worked  by  day  in  the  Lossing  furni- 
ture factory,  and  gave  bicycle  lessons  at  the  armory 
evenings.  He  was  clad  in  a  white  sweater  and  buff 
leggings,  and  was  wheeling  a  lady's  bicycle.  Behind 
him  walked  Miss  Hopkins  in  a  gray  suit,  the  skirt  of 
which  only  came  to  her  ankles — she,  always  so  dig- 
nified in  her  toilets. 

155 


STORIES   THAT   END   WELL 

"Land's  sakes!"  gasped  Mrs.  Winslow,  "if  she 
ain't  going  to  ride  a  bike !  Well,  what  next?" 

What  really  happened  next  was  the  sneaking  (  for 
no  other  word  does  justice  to  the  cautious  and  cir- 
cuitous movements  of  her)  of  Mrs.  Winslow  to  the 
stable,  which  had  one  window  facing  the  Hopkins 
pasture.  No  cows  were  grazing  in  the  pasture.  All 
around  the  grassy  plateau  twinkled  a  broad  brown- 
ish-yellow track.  At  one  side  of  this  track  a  bench 
had  been  placed,  and  a  table,  pleasing  to  the  eye, 
with  jugs  and  glasses.  Mrs.  Ellis,  in  a  suit  of  the 
same  undignified  brevity  and  ease  as  Miss  Hop- 
kins', sat  on  the  bench  supporting  her  own  wheel. 
Shuey  Cardigan  was  drawn  up  to  his  full  six  feet  of 
strength,  and,  one  arm  in  the  air,  was  explaining 
the  theory  of  the  balance  of  power.  It  was  an  un- 
canny moment  to  Lorania.  She  eyed  the  glistening, 
restless  thing  that  slipped  beneath  her  hand,  and  her 
fingers  trembled.  If  she  could  have  fled  in  secret 
she  would.  But  since  flight  was  not  possible,  she 
assumed  a  firm  expression.  Mrs.  Ellis  wore  a  smile 
of  studied  and  sickly  cheerfulness. 

"Don't  you  think  it  is  very  high?"  said  Lorania. 
"I  can  never  get  up  on  it !" 
156 


THE    STOUT    MISS    HOPKINS'  BICYCLE 

"It  will  be  by  the  block  at  first,"  said  Shuey,  in 
the  soothing  tones  of  a  jockey  to  a  nervous  horse; 
"it's  easy  by  the  block.  And  I'll  be  steadying  it,  of 
course." 

"Don't  they  have  any  with  larger  saddles  ?  It  is 
a  very  small  saddle." 

"They're  all  of  a  size.  It  wouldn't  look  sporty 
larger:  it  would  look  like  a  special  make.  Yous 
wouldn't  want  a  special  make." 

Lorania  thought  that  she  would  be  thankful  for  a 
special  make,  but  she  suppressed  the  unsportsmanlike 
thought.  "The  pedals  are  very  small,  too,  Cardigan. 
Are  you  sure  they  can  hold  me  ?" 

"They  could  hold  two  of  ye,  Miss  Hopkins.  Now 
sit  aisy  and  graceful  as  ye  would  on  your  chair  at 
home,  hold  the  shoulders  back,  and  toe  in  a  bit  on 
the  pedals — ye  won't  be  skinning  your  ankles  so 
much  then — and  hold  your  foot  up  ready  to  get  the 
other  pedal.  Hold  light  on  the  steering-bar.  Push 
off  hard.  Now!" 

"Will  you  hold  me?  I'm  going — Oh,  it's  like 
riding  an  earthquake!" 

Here  Shuey  made  a  run,  letting  the  wheel  have  its 
own  wild  way — to  teach  the  balance.  "Keep  the 
157 


STORIES   THAT    END   WELL 

front  wheel  under  yon !"  he  cried  cheerfully.  "Niver 
mind  where  you  go.  Keep  a-pedalling;  whatever 
you  do,  keep  a-pedalling!" 

"But  I  haven't  got  but  one  pedal!"  gasped  the 
rider. 

"Ye  lost  it?" 

"No ;  I  never  had  but  one !  Oh,  don't  let  me  fall !" 

"Oh,  ye  lost  it  in  the  beginning;  now,  then,  I'll 
hold  it  steady,  and  you  get  both  feet  right.  Here 
we  go!" 

Swaying  fright  fully  from  side  to  side,  and 
wrenched  from  capsizing  the  wheel  by  the  full  exer- 
cise of  Shuey's  great  muscles,  Miss  Hopkins  reeled 
over  the  track.  At  short  intervals  she  lost  her 
pedals,  and  her  feet,  for  some  strange  reason,  in- 
stead of  seeking  the  lost,  simply  curled  up  as  if 
afraid  of  being  hit.  She  gripped  the  steering-han- 
dles with  an  iron  grasp,  and  her  turns  were  such  as 
an  engine  makes.  Nevertheless  Shuey  got  her  up 
the  track  for  some  hundred  feet,  and  then  by  a  her- 
culean sweep  turned  her  round  and  rolled  her  back 
to  the  block.  It  was  at  this  painful  moment,  when 
her  whole  being  was  concentrated  on  the  effort  to 
keep  from  toppling  against  Shuey,  and  even  more  to 
158 


THE    STOUT    MISS    HOPKINS'  BICYCLE 

keep  from  toppling  away  from  him,  that  Lorania's 
strained  gaze  suddenly  fell  on  the  frightened  and 
sympathetic  face  of  Mrs.  Winslow.  The  good 
woman  saw  no  fun  in  the  spectacle,  but  rather  an 
awful  risk  to  life  and  limb.  Their  eyes  met.  Not  a 
change  passed  over  Miss  Hopkins'  features ;  but  she 
looked  up  as  soon  as  she  was  safe  on  the  ground, 
and  smiled.  In  a  moment,  before  Mrs.  Winslow 
could  decide  whether  to  run  or  to  stand  her  ground, 
she  saw  the  cyclist  approaching — on  foot. 

"Won't  you  come  in  and  sit  down?"  she  said, 
smiling.  "We  are  trying  our  new  wheels." 

And  because  she  did  not  know  how  to  refuse, 
Mrs.  Winslow  suffered  herself  to  be  handed  over 
the  fence.  She  sat  on  the  bench  beside  Miss  Hop- 
kins in  the  prim  attitude  which  had  pertained  to 
gentility  in  her  youth,  her  hands  loosely  clasping 
each  other,  her  feet  crossed  at  the  ankles. 

"It's  an  awful  sight,  ain't  it?"  she  breathed,  "those 
little  shiny  things;  I  don't  see  how  you  ever  git  on 
them." 

"I  don't,"  said  Miss  Hopkins.    "The  only  way  I 
shall  ever  learn  to  start  off  is  to  start  without  the 
pedals.  Does  your  son  ride,  Mrs.  Winslow?" 
159 


STORIES   THAT    END   WELL 

"No,  ma'am,"  said  Mrs.  Winslow;  "but  he  knows 
how.  When  he  was  a  boy  nothing  would  do  but  he 
must  have  a  bicycle,  one  of  those  things  most  as  big 
as  a  mill  wheel,  and  if  you  fell  off  you  broke  your- 
self somewhere,  sure.  I  always  expected  he'd  be 
brought  home  in  pieces.  So  I  don't  think  he'd  have 
any  manner  of  difficulty.  Why,  look  at  your  friend ; 
she's  most  riding  alone !" 

"She  could  always  do  everything  better  than  I," 
cried  Lorania,  with  ungrudging  admiration.  "See 
how  she  jumps  off !  Now  I  can't  jump  off  any  more 
than  I  can  jump  on.  It  seems  so  ridiculous  to  be 
told  to  press  hard  on  the  pedal  on  the  side  where  you 
want  to  jump,  and  swing  your  further  leg  over  first, 
and  cut  a  kind  of  figure  eight  with  your  legs,  and 
turn  your  wheel  the  way  you  don't  want  to  go — all 
at  once.  While  I'm  trying  to  think  of  all  those  di- 
rections I  always  fall  off.  I  got  that  wheel  only 
yesterday,  and  fell  before  I  even  got  away  from  the 
block.  One  of  my  arms  looks  like  a  Persian  ribbon." 

Mrs.  Winslow  cried  out  in  unfeigned  sympathy. 
She  wished  Miss  Hopkins  would  use  her  linament 
that  she  used  for  Cyril  when  he  was  hurt  by  the 
burglars  at  the  bank ;  he  was  bruised  "terrible." 
160 


THE    STOUT    MISS    HOPKINS'  BICYCLE 

"That  must  have  been  an  awful  time  to  you,"  said 
Lorania,  looking  with  more  interest  than  she  had 
ever  felt  on  the  meek  little  woman ;  and  she  noticed 
the  tremble  in  the  decorously  clasped  hands. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  was  all  she  said. 

"I've  often  looked  over  at  you  on  the  piazza,  and 
thought  how  cozy  you  looked.  Mr.  Winslow  always 
seems  to  be  home  evenings." 

"Yes,  ma'am.  We  sit  a  great  deal  on  the  piazza. 
Cyril's  a  good  boy;  he  wa'n't  nine  when  his  father 
died;  and  he's  been  like  a  man  helping  me.  There 
never  was  a  boy  had  such  willing  little  feet.  And 
he'd  set  right  there  on  the  steps  and  pat  my  slipper 
and  say  what  he'd  git  me  when  he  got  to  earning 
money ;  and  he's  got  me  every  last  thing,  foolish  and 
all,  that  he  said.  There's  that  black  satin  gown,  a 
sin  and  a  shame  for  a  plain  body  like  me,  but  he 
would  git  it.  Cyril's  got  a  beautiful  disposition, 
too,  jest  like  his  pa's,  and  he's  a  handy  man  about 
the  house,  and  prompt  at  his  meals.  I  wonder  some- 
times if  Cyril  was  to  git  married  if  his  wife  would 
mind  his  running  over  now  and  then  and  setting 
with  me  awhile." 

She  was  speaking  more  rapidly,  and  her  eyes 
161 


STORIES   THAT    END   .WELL 

strayed  wistfully  over  to  the  Hopkins  piazza,  where 
Sibyl  was  sitting  with  the  young  soldier.  Lorania 
looked  at  her  pityingly. 

"Why,  surely,"  said  she. 

"Mothers  have  kinder  selfish  feelings,"  said  Mrs. 
Winslow,  moistening  her  lips  and  drawing  a  quick 
breath,  still  watching  the  girl  on  the  piazza.  "It's  so 
sweet  and  peaceful  for  them,  they  forget  their  sons 
may  want  something  more.  But  it's  kinder  hard 
giving  all  your  little  comforts  up  at  once  when 
you've  had  him  right  with  you  so  long,  and  could 
cook  just  what  he  liked,  and  go  right  into  his  room 
nights  if  he  coughed.  It's  all  right,  all  right,  but  it's 
kinder  hard.  And  beautiful  young  ladies  that  have 
had  everything  all  their  lives  might — might  not  un- 
derstand that  a  homespun  old  mother  isn't  wanting 
to  force  herself  on  them  at  all  when  they  have  com- 
pany, and  they  have  no  call  to  fear  it." 

There  was  no  doubt,  however  obscure  the  words 
seemed,  that  Mrs.  Winslow  had  a  clear  purpose  in 
her  mind,  nor  that  she  was  tremendously  in  earnest. 
Little  blotches  of  red  dabbled  her  cheeks,  her  breath 
came  more  quickly,  and  she  swallowed  between  her 
words.  Lorania  could  see  the  quiver  in  the  muscles 
162 


THE    STOUT    MISS    HOPKINS'  BICYCLE 

of  her  throat.  She  clasped  her  hands  tight  lest  they 
should  shake.  "He  is  in  love  with  Sibyl,"  thought 
Lorania.  "The  poor  woman!"  She  felt  sorry  for 
her,  and  she  spoke  gently  and  reassuringly : 

"No  girl  with  a  good  heart  can  help  feeling  ten- 
derly toward  her  husband's  mother." 

Mrs.  Winslow  nodded.  "You're  real  comfort- 
ing," said  she.  She  was  silent  a  moment,  and  then 
said,  in  a  different  tone:  "You  ain't  got  a  large 
enough  track.  Wouldn't  you  like  to  have  our  pas- 
ture too?" 

Lorania  expressed  her  gratitude,  and  invited  the 
Winslows  to  see  the  practice. 

"My  niece  will  come  out  to-morrow,"  she  said, 
graciously. 

"Yes?  She  is  a  real  fine-appearing  young  lady," 
said  Mrs.  Winslow. 

Both  the  cyclists  exulted.  Neither  of  them,  how- 
ever, was  prepared  to  behold  the  track  made  and 
the  fence  down  the  very  next  morning  when  they 
came  out,  about  ten  o'clock,  to  the  west  side  of  Miss 
Hopkins'  boundaries. 

"As  sure  as  you  live,  Maggie,"  exclaimed  Lo- 
rania, eagerly,  "he's  got  it  all  done!  Now,  that  is 
163 


STORIES   THAT   END    WELL 

something  like  a  lover.  I  only  hope  his  heart  won't 
be  bruised  as  black  and  blue  as  I  am  with  the  wheel !" 

"Shuey  says  the  only  harm  your  falls  do  you  is  to 
take  away  your  confidence,"  said  Mrs.  Ellis. 

"He  wouldn't  say  so  if  he  could  see  my  knees!" 
retorted  Miss  Hopkins. 

Mrs.  Ellis,  it  will  be  observed,  sheered  away  from 
the  love  affairs  of  Mr.  Cyril  Winslow.  She  had  not 
yet  made  up  her  mind.  And  Mrs.  Ellis,  who  had 
been-married,  did  not  jump  at  conclusions  regarding 
the  heart  of  man  so  readily  as  her  spinster  friend. 
She  preferred  to  talk  of  the  bicycle.  Nor  did  Miss 
Hopkins  refuse  the  subject.  To  her  at  this  moment 
the  most  important  object  on  the  globe  was  the  shin- 
ing machine  which  she  would  allow  no  hand  but  hers 
to  oil  and  dust.  Both  Mrs.  Ellis  and  she  were  sim- 
ply prostrated  (as  to  their  mental  powers)  by  this 
new  sport.  They  could  not  think  nor  talk  nor  read 
of  anything  but  the  wheel. 

Between  their  accidents,  they  obtained  glimpses 
of  an  exquisite  exhilaration.  And  there  was  also 
to  be  counted  the  approval  of  their  consciences, 
for  they  felt  that  no  Turkish  bath  could  wring 
out  moisture  from  their  systems  like  half  an 
164 


THE    STOUT    MISS    HOPKINS'  BICYCLE 

hour's  pumping  at  the  bicycle  treadles.  Lorania 
during  the  month  had  ridden  through  one  bottle  of 
liniment  and  two  of  witch  hazel,  and  by  the  end  of 
the  second  bottle  could  ride  a  short  distance  alone. 
But  Lorania  could  not  yet  dismount  unassisted,  and 
several  times  she  had  felled  poor  Winslow  to  the 
earth  when  he  rashly  adventured  to  stop  her.  Cap- 
tain Carr  had  a  peculiar,  graceful  fling  of  the  arm, 
catching  the  saddle  bar  with  one  hand  while  he 
steadied  the  handles  with  the  other.  He  did  not 
hesitate  in  the  least  to  grab  Lorania's  belt  if  neces- 
sary. But  poor  modest  Winslow,  who  fell  upon  the 
wheel  and  dared  not  touch  the  hem  of  a  lady's  bi- 
cycle skirt,  was  as  one  in  the  path  of  a  cyclone,  and 
appeared  daily  in  a  fresh  pair  of  white  trousers. 

"Yous  have  now,"  Shuey  remarked  impressively, 
one  day — "yous  have  now  arrived  at  the  most  diffi- 
cult and  dangerous  period  in  learning  the  wheel. 
It's  similar  to  a  baby  when  it's  first  learned  to  walk 
but  ain't  yet  got  sense  in  walking.  When  it  was 
little  it  would  stay  put  wherever  ye  put  it,  and  it 
didn't  know  enough  to  go  by  itself,  which  is  similar 
to  you.  When  I  was  holding  ye  you  couldn't  fall, 
but  now  you're  off  alone  depindent  on  yourself, 
165 


STORIES   THAT    END   WELL 

object-struck  by  every  tree,  taking  most  of  the  pas- 
ture to  turn  in,  and  not  able  to  git  off  save  by 
falling—" 

"Oh,  couldn't  you  go  with  her  somehow?"  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Winslow,  appalled  at  the  picture. 
"Wouldn't  a  rope  round  her  be  some  help?  I  used 
to  put  it  round  Cyril  when  he  was  learning  to  walk." 

"Well,  no,  ma'am,"  said  Shuey,  patiently.  "Don't 
you  be  scared ;  the  riding  will  come ;  she's  getting  on 
grandly.  And  ye  should  see  Mr.  Winslow.  'Tis  a 
pleasure  to  teach  him.  He  rode  in  one  lesson.  I 
ain't  learning  him  nothing  but  tricks  now." 

"But,  Mr.  Winslow,  why  don't  you  ride  here — 
with  us?"  said  Sibyl,  with  her  coquettish  and  flatter- 
ing smile.  "We're  always  hearing  of  your  beautiful 
riding.  Are  we  never  to  see  it  ?" 

"I  think  Mr.  Winslow  is  waiting  for  that  swell 
English  cycle  suit  that  I  hear  about,"  said  the  cap- 
tain, grinning;  and  Winslow  grew  red  to  his  eyelids. 

Lorania  gave  an  indignant  side  glance  at  Sibyl. 
Why  need  the  girl  make  game  of  an  honest  man  who 
loved  her?  Sibyl  was  biting  her  lips  and  darting 
side  glances  at  the  captain.  She  called  the  pasture 
practice  slow,  but  she  seemed,  nevertheless,  to  enjoy 
166 


THE    STOUT    MISS    HOPKINS'  BICYCLE 

herself  sitting  on  the  bench,  the  captain  on  one  side 
and  Winslow  on  the  other,  rattling  off  her  girlish 
jokes,  while  her  aunt  and  Mrs.  Ellis,  with  the  anx- 
ious, set  faces  of  the  beginner,  were  pedalling  fran- 
tically after  Cardigan.  Lorania  began  to  pity 
Winslow,  for  it  was  growing  plain  to  her  that  Sibyl 
and  the  captain  understood  each  other.  She  thought 
that  even  if  Sibyl  did  care  for  the  soldier,  she  need 
not  be  so  careless  of  Winslow's  feelings.  She  talked 
with  the  cashier  herself,  trying  to  make  amends  for 
Sibyl's  absorption  in  the  other  man,  and  she  ad- 
rmred  the  fortitude  that  concealed  the  pain  that  he 
must  feel.  It  became  quite  the  expected  thing  for 
the  Winslows  to  be  present  at  the  practice;  but 
Winslow  had  not  yet  appeared  on  his  wheel.  He 
used  to  bring  a  box  of  candy  with  him,  or  rather 
three  boxes — one  for  each  lady,  he  said — and  a  box 
of  peppermints  for  his  mother.  He  was  always  very 
attentive  to  his  mother. 

"And  fancy,  Aunt  Margaret,"  laughed  Sibyl,  "he 
has  asked  both  auntie  and  me  to  the  theater.  He  is 
not  going  to  compromise  himself  by  singling  one  of 
us  out.  He's  a  careful  soul.  By  the  way,  Aunt 
Margaret,  Mrs.  Winslow  was  telling  me  yesterday 
167 


STORIES    THAT    END    WELL 

that  I  am  the  image  of  auntie  at  my  age.  Am  I? 
Do  I  look  like  her?  Was  she  as  slender  as  I ?" 

"Almost,"  said  Mrs.  Ellis,  who  was  not  so  inflex- 
ibly truthful  as  her  friend. 

"No,  Sibyl,"  said  Lorania,  with  a  deep,  deep  sigh, 
"I  was  always  plump;  I  was  a  chubby  child!  And 
oh,  what  do  you  'think  I  heard  in  the  crowd  at 
Manly's  once?  One  woman  said  to  another,  'Miss 
Hopkins  has  got  a  wheel.'  'Miss  Sibyl?'  said  the 
other.  'No;  the  stout  Miss  Hopkins,'  said  the  first 
creature;  and  the  second — "  Lorania  groaned. 

"What  did  she  say  to  make  you  feel  that  way?" 

"She  said — she  said,  'Oh,  my!'  "  answered  Lo- 
rania, with  a  dying  look. 

"Well,  she  was  horrid,"  said  Mrs.  Ellis;  "but 
you  know  you  have  grown  thin.  Come  on;  let's 
ride!" 

"I  never  shall  be  able  to  ride,"  said  Lorania, 
gloomily.  "I  can  get  on,  but  I  can't  get  off.  And 
they've  taken  off  the  brake,  so  I  can't  stop.  And 
I'm  object-struck  by  everything  I  look  at.  Some 
day  I  shall  look  down  hill.  Well,  my  will's  in  the 
lower  drawer  of  the  mahogany  desk." 

Perhaps  Lorania  had  an  occult  inkling  of  the  fu- 
168 


THE    STOUT    MISS    HOPKINS'  BICYCLE 

ture.  For  this  is  what  happened:  That  evening 
Winslow  rode  on  to  the  track  in  his  new  English 
bicycle  suit,  which  had  just  come.  He  hoped  that 
he  didn't  look  like  a  fool  in  those  queer  clothes. 
But  the  instant  he  entered  the  pasture  he  saw  some- 
thing that  drove  everything  else  out  of  his  head,  and 
made  him  bend  over  the  steering-bar  and  race  madly 
across  the  green;  Miss  Hopkins'  bicycle  was  run- 
ning away  down  hill !  Cardigan,  on  foot,  was  pelt- 
ing obliquely,  in  the  hopeless  thought  to  intercept 
her,  while  Mrs.  Ellis,  who  was  reeling  over  the 
ground  with  her  own  bicycle,  wheeled  as  rapidly  as 
she  could  to  the  brow  of  the  hill,  where  she  tumbled 
off,  and,  abandoning  the  wheel,  rushed  on  foot  to 
her  friend's  rescue. 

She  was  only  in  time  to  see  a  flash  of  silver  and 
ebony  and  a  streak  of  brown  dart  before  her  vision 
and  swim  down  the  hill  like  a  bird.  Lorania  was 
still  in  the  saddle,  pedalling  from  sheer  force  of 
habit,  and  clinging  to  the  handle-bars.  Below  the 
hill  was  a  stone  wall,  and  farther  was  the  creek. 
There  was  a  narrow  opening  in  the  wall  where  the 
cattle  went  down  to  drink;  if  she  could  steer  through 
that  she  would  have  nothing  worse  than  soft  water 
169 


STORIES   THAT    END    WELL 

and  mud ;  but  there  was  not  one  chance  in  a  thou- 
sand that  she  could  pass  that  narrow  space.  Mrs. 
Winslow,  horror-stricken,  watched  the  rescuer,  who 
evidently  was  cutting  across  to  catch  the  bicycle. 

"He's  riding  out  of  sight !"  thought  Shuey,  in  the 
rear.  He  himself  did  not  slacken  his  speed,  al- 
though he  could  not  be  in  time  for  the  catastrophe. 
Suddenly  he  stiffened;  Winslow  was  close  to  the 
runaway  wheel. 

"Grab  her!"  yelled  Shuey.  "Grab  her  by  the 
belt!  Oh,  Lord!" 

The  exclamation  exploded  like  the  groan  of  a 
shell.  For  while  Winslow's  bicycling  was  all  that 
could  be  wished,  and  he  flung  himself  in  the  path  of 
the  on-coming  wheel  with  marvelous  celerity  and 
precision,  he  had  not  the  power  to  withstand  the 
never  yet  revealed  number  of  pounds  carried  by 
Miss  Lorania,  impelled  by  the  rapid  descent  and 
gathering  momentum  at  every  whirl.  They  met ;  he 
caught  her;  but  instantly  he  was  rolling  down  the 
steep  incline  and  she  was  doubled  up  on  the  grass. 
He  crashed  sickeningly  against  the  stone  wall;  she 
lay  stunned  and  still  on  the  sod ;  and  their  friends, 
with  beating  hearts,  slid  down  to  them.  Mrs.  Wins- 
170 


THE    STOUT    MISS    HOPKINS'  BICYCLE 

low  was  on  the  brow  of  the  hill.  She  blesses  Shuey 
to  this  day  for  the  shout  he  sent  up,  "Nobody  killed, 
and  I  guess  no  bones  broken." 

When  Margaret  went  home  that  evening,  having 
seen  her  friend  safely  in  bed,  not  much  the  worse 
for  her  fall,  she  was  told  that  Cardigan  wished  to 
see  her.  Shuey  produced  something  from  his  pocket, 
saying:  "I  picked  this  up  on  the  hill,  ma'am,  after 
the  accident.  It  maybe  belongs  to  him,  or  it  maybe 
belongs  to  her;  I'm  thinking  the  safest  way  is  to  just 
give  it  to  you."  He  handed  Mrs.  Ellis  a  tiny  gold- 
framed  miniature  of  Lorania  in  a  red  leather  case. 

The  morning  was  a  sparkling  June  morning, 
dewy  and  fragrant,  and  the  sunlight  burnished  the 
handles  and  pedals  of  the  friends'  bicycles  standing 
on  the  piazza  unheeded.  It  was  the  hour  for  morning 
practice,  but  Miss  Hopkins  slept  in  her  chamber,  and 
Mrs.  Ellis  sat  in  the  little  parlor  adjoining,  and 
thought 

She  did  not  look  surprised  at  the  maid's  announce- 
ment that  Mrs.  Winslow  begged  to  see  her  for  a  few- 
moments.  Mrs.  Winslow  was  pale.  She  was  a  good 
171 


STORIES   THAT   END   WELL 

sketch  of  discomfort  on  the  very  edge  of  her  chair, 
clad  in  the  black  silk  which  she  wore  Sundays,  her 
head  crowned  with  her  bonnet  of  state,  and  her 
hands  stiff  in  a  pair  of  new  gloves. 

"I  hope  you'll  excuse  me  not  sending  up  a  card," 
she  began.  "Cyril  got  me  some  going  on  a  year  ago, 
and  I  thought  I  could  lay  my  hand  right  on  'em,  but 
I'm  so  nervous  this  morning  I  hunted  all  over,  and 
they  wasn't  anywhere.  I  won't  keep  you.  I  jest 
wanted  to  ask  if  you  picked  up  anything — a  little 
red  Russia-leather  case — " 

"Was  it  a  miniature — a  miniature  of  my  friend 
Miss  Hopkins?" 

"I  thought  it  all  over,  and  I  came  to  explain. 
You  no  doubt  think  it  strange ;  and  I  can  assure  you 
that  my  son  never  let  any  human  being  look  at  that 
picture.  I  never  knew  about  it  myself  till  it  was  lost 
and  he  got  up  out  of  his  bed — he  ain't  hardly  able 
to  walk — and  staggered  over  here  to  look  for  it,  and 
I  followed  him ;  and  so  he  had  to  tell  me.  He  had 
it  painted  from  a  picture  that  came  out  in  the  papers. 
He  felt  it  was  an  awful  liberty.  But — you  don't 
know  how  my  boy  feels,  Mrs.  Ellis;  he  has  wor- 
shipped that  woman  for  years.  He  ain't  never  had 
172 


•THE    STOUT    MISS    HOPKINS'  BICYCLE 

a  thought  of  anybody  but  her  since  they  was  chil- 
dren in  school ;  and  yet's  he's  been  so  modest  and  so 
shy  of  pushing  himself  forward  that  he  didn't  do  a 
thing  until  I  put  him  on  to  help  you  with  this  bi- 
cycle." 

Margaret  Ellis  did  not  know  what  to  say.  She 
thought  of  the  marquis;  and  Mrs.  Winslow  poured 
out  her  story :  "He  ain't  never  said  a  word  to  me 
till  this  morning.  But  don't  I  know?  Don't  I  know 
who  looked  out  so  careful  for  her  investments? 
Don't  I  know  who  was  always  looking  out  for  her 
interest — silent,  and  always  keeping  himself  in  the 
background?  Why,  she  couldn't  even  buy  a  cow 
that  he  wa'n't  looking  round  to  see  that  she  got  a 
good  one!  'Twas  him  saw  the  gardener,  and  kept 
him  from  buying  that  cow  with  tuberculosis,  'cause 
he  knew  about  the  herd.  He  knew  by  finding  out. 
He  worshipped  the  very  cows  she  owned,  you  may 
say,  and  I've  seen  him  patting  and  feeding  up  her 
dogs ;  it's  to  our  house  that  big  mastiff  always  goes 
every  night.  Mrs.  Ellis,  it  ain't  often  that  a  woman 
gits  love  such  as  my  son  is  offering,  only  he  da'sn't 
offer  it,  and  it  ain't  often  a  woman  is  loved  by  such 
a  good  man  as  my  son.  He  ain't  got  any  bad  habits ; 
173 


STORIES   THAT    END    WELL 

he'll  die  before  he  wrongs  anybody;  and  he  has  got 
the  sweetest  temper  you  ever  see ;  and  he's  the  tidiest 
man  about  a  house  you  could  ask,  and  the  promptest 
about  meals." 

Mrs.  Ellis  looked  at  her  flushed  face,  and  sent  an- 
other flood  of  color  into  it,  for  she  said,  "Mrs. 
Winslow,  I  don't  know  how  much  good  I  may  be 
able  to  do,  but  I  am  on  your  side." 

Her  eyes  followed  the  little  black  figure  when  it 
crossed  the  lawn.  She  wondered  whether  her  advice 
was  good,  for  she  had  counseled  that  Winslow  come 
over  in  the  evening. 

"Maggie,"  said  a  voice.  Lorania  was  in  the  door- 
way. "Maggie,"  she  said,  "I  ought  to  tell  you  that 
I  heard  every  word." 

"Then  /  can  tell  you"  cried  Mrs.  Ellis,  "that  he  is 
fifty  times  more  of  a  man  than  the  marquis,  and 
loves  you  fifty  thousand  times  better!" 

Lorania  made  no  answer,  not  even  by  a  look. 
What  she  felt  Mrs.  Ellis  could  not  guess.  Nor  was 
she  any  wiser  when  Winslow  appeared  at  her  gate, 
just  as  the  sun  was  setting. 

"I  didn't  think  I  would  better  intrude  on  Miss 
Hopkins,"  said  he,  "but  perhaps  you  could  tell  me 


THE    STOUT    MISS    HOPKINS'  BICYCLE 

how  she  is  this  evening.  My  mother  told  me  how 
kind  you  were,  and  perhaps  you — you  would  advise 
me  if  I  might  venture  to  send  Miss  Hopkins  some 
flowers." 

Out  of  the  kindness  of  her  heart  Mrs.  Ellis  avert- 
ed her  eyes  from  his  face ;  thus  she  was  able  to  per- 
ceive Lorania  saunter  out  of  the  Hopkins  gate.  So 
changed  was  she  by  the  bicycle  practice  that, 
wrapped  in  her  niece's  shawl,  she  made  Margaret 
think  of  the  girl.  An  inspiration  flashed  to  her;  she 
knew  the  cashier's  dependence  on  his  eye-glasses, 
and  he  was  not  wearing  them. 

"If  you  want  to  know  how  Miss  Hopkins  is,  why 
not  speak  to  her  niece  now  ?"  she  said. 

He  started.  He  saw  Miss  Sibyl,  as  he  supposed, 
and  he  went  swiftly  down  the  street.  "Miss  Sibyl," 
he  began,  "may  I  ask  how  is  your  aunt?" — and  then 
she  turned. 

She  blushed,  then  she  laughed  aloud.  "Has  the 
bicycle  done  so  much  for  me  ?"  said  she. 

"The  bicycle  didn't  need  to  do  anything  for  you !" 
he  cried,  warmly. 

Mrs.  Ellis,  a  little  distance  in  the  rear,  heard, 
turned,  and  walked  thoughtfully  away.  "They're 


STORIES   THAT    END    WELL 

off,"  said  she — she  had  acquired  a  sporting  tinge  of 
thought  from  Shuey  Cardigan.  "If  with  that  start 
he  can't  make  the  running,  it's  a  wonder." 

"I  have  invited  Mr.  Winslow  and  his  mother  to 
dinner,"  said  Miss  Hopkins,  in  the  morning.  "Will 
you  come  too,  Maggie?" 

"I'll  back  him  against  the  marquis,"  thought 
Margaret,  gleefully. 

A  week  later  Lorania  said :  "I  really  think  I  must 
be  getting  thinner.  Fancy  Mr.  Winslow,  who  is  so 
clear-sighted,  mistaking  me  for  Sibyl !  He  says — I 
told  him  how  I  had  suffered  from  my  figure — he 
says  it  can't  be  what  he  has  suffered  from  his.  Do 
you  think  him  so  very  short,  Maggie?  Of  course  he 
isn't  tall,  but  he  has  an  elegant  figure,  I  think,  and  I 
never  saw  anywhere  such  a  rider !" 

Mrs.  Ellis  answered,  heartily:  "He  isn't  very 
small,  and  he  is  a  beautiful  figure  on  the  wheel!" 
And  added  to  herself,  "I  know  what  was  in  that 
letter  she  sent  yesterday  to  the  marquis!  But  to 
think  of  its  all  being  due  to  the  bicycle!" 


176 


THE  SPELLBINDER 

Not  long  since  the  writer  had  occasion  to  pass 
through  the  scene  of  this  story.  It  would  be  hard 
to  find  anywhere  a  more  pleasant  and  prosperous 
land.  Fertile  fields  and  shady  country  roads  and 
pastures  where  sleek  cattle  are  contentedly  grazing ; 
great  stacks  of  green  alfalfa;  farmhouses  with 
flowers  and  vines,  as  well  as  thriving  kitchen  gar- 
dens ;  windmills  that  pipe  houses  with  water  as  well 
as  fill  the  barn  troughs;  automobiles  and  gcod  roads 
— there  could  hardly  be  a  greater  contrast.  And 
it  is  pleasant  to  hear  that  the  pioneers  who  suffered 
incredible  hardships  during  the  lean  years  are  now 
reaping  the  reward  of  their  toil,  courage  and  versa- 
tile, indomitable  ingenuity. 

THE  frozen  soil  rattled  under  the  horses'  hoofs ; 
the  wagon  wheels  rattled  on  their  own  account. 
A  December  wind  was  keen  enough  to  make  the 
driver  wrap  his  patched  quilt  closer  and  pull  his  bat- 
tered straw  hat  lower  over  his  ears.    He  was  a  man 
of  thirty,  with  high,  tanned  features  and  eyes  that 
177 


STORIES    THAT    END   .WELL 

would  have  been  handsome  but    for  their  sullen 
frown. 

"I  should  call  it  getting  good  and  ready  for  a  bliz- 
zard," observed  the  other  man  on  the  board  (seat  the 
wagon  had  none) ;  "maybe  he  won't  come." 

"He'll  come  fast  enough,"  returned  the  driver; 
"you  don't  catch  buzzards  staying  in  for  weather!" 

"I  don't  know.  He's  a  pretty  luxurious  young 
scoundrel.  Bixby  says  he  had  a  letter  from  him — 
very  particular  about  a  fire  in  his  room,  and  plenty 
of  hot  water  and  towels.  Bixby  is  worried  lest  the 
boys  make  a  fuss  with  him  in  his  hotel." 

"Bixby  is  a  coward  from  Wayback,"  was  the 
driver's  single  comment  or  reply.  The  other  man 
eyed  the  dark  profile  at  his  shoulder,  out  of  the  tail 
of  his  eye  rubbing  his  hands  up  and  down  his  wrists 
under  his  frayed  sleeves.  He  was  a  young  man, 
shorter  of  stature  than  the  driver.  He  had  a  round, 
genial,  tanned  face,  and  a  bad  cold  on  him.  His 
hands  were  bare  because  he  had  lent  his  mittens  to 
the  driver;  but  he  wore  a  warm,  if  shabby  greatcoat 
and  a  worn  fur  cap. 

"I  don't  suppose,"  he  said  in  a  careless  tone,  "you 
fellows  mean  to  do  more  than  scare  the  lad  well." 
178 


THE    SPELLBINDER 

"We  scared  the  last  man.  Doc  Russell  got  him 
fairly  paralyzed;  told  him  'bout  the  Shylock  that 
turned  out  the  Kinneys,  and  Miss  Kinney's  dying  in 
the  wagon,  she  was  so  weak;  and  Kin — somebody 
('course  he  didn't  mention  names)  shooting  that 
man;  and  their  arresting  Kinney,  and  the  jury  ac- 
quitting him  without  leaving  the  box.  Oh,  he  told  a 
lot  of  stories.  Some  of  'em,  I  guess,  he  made  up  out 
of  his  own  head;  but  that  Iowa  lawyer  swallered  the 
whole  batch,  hide  and  hoofs  and  all.  And  he 
couldn't  git  out  of  town  quick  enough!  But  what's 
the  good  ?  Here's  this  young  dude  come  again.  Say, 
did  you  know  it's  his  pa  that  owns  most  of  the  stock 
in  the  trust  ?" 

"No?" 

"Yes,  sir.  He's  got  the  upper  hand  of  'em  all. 
They've  bought  up  every  last  bit  of  foreclosed  land 
'round  here.  Yes,  we  was  so  mighty  smart,  we  fixed 
it  that  nobody'd  dare  to  buy ;  and  nobody  'round  here 
would  dare,  even  s'posing  they  got  the  money,  which 
they  ain't — " 

"There  certainly  ain't  much  loose  money  'round 
here,  Wesley.  At  least,  when  I  ran  the  paper  I 
didn't  find  it ;  I  was  glad  to  rent  an  abandoned  farm 
179 


STORIES   THAT    END    WELL 

and  trade  my  subscription  list  for  enough  corn  to 
pay  the  first  instalment  on  some  stock  and  a  cultiva- 
tor." 

"Did  you  pay  any  more?" 

"No;  times  got  worse  instead  of  better.  I'd  have 
lost  the  stock  and  the  cultivator  and  every  blamed 
thing  in  the  way  of  implement  I've  got  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  you  fellows  running  the  implement  man  out 
of  the  country;  he'd  a  chattel  mortgage  that  was  a 
terror.  But  what  were  you  saying  about  the  land  ? 
Nobody  would  buy  ?" 

"Of  course  nobody  would  buy,  and  we  hugged 
ourselves  we  was  so  durned  slick.  Oh,  my !  Now, 
here  comes  along  one  of  them  bloody  trusts  that's 
eating  this  country  up,  and  goes  to  the  land  company 
and  buys  the  foreclosed  land  for  a  song.  It  goes 
all  the  cheaper  because  its  known  far  and  wide  that 
we  elected  the  sheriff  not  to  enforce  writs,  but  to 
resist  'em ;  and  the  same  with  all  the  officers ;  and 
we're  ready  to  shoot  down  any  man  that  tries  to 
push  us  off  the  earth.  That  scared  folks,  and  the 
investment  company  sold  cheap  as  dirt.  They  knew 
they  couldn't  git  anybody  to  take  up  a  farm  'round 
here.  Look  a'  there !"  He  jerked  the  point  of  the 
1 80 


THE    SPELLBINDER 

switch  that  served  for  whip  in  the  direction  of  a 
dark  bulk  looming  against  the  glowing  belt  of  red 
in  the  west  The  outlines  of  a  ruined  chimney  top- 
pled over  the  misshapen  roof.  The  door  and  win- 
dow openings  gaped  forlornly;  doors  and  windows 
were  gone  long  since,  wrenched  off  for  other  needs. 
Bit  by  bit  the  house  had  been  nibbled  at — here  a 
porch  platform  taken,  there  a  patch  of  weather- 
boarding,  shingles  pulled  from  the  roof,  the  corn 
crib  a  wreck,  the  outbuildings  carried  away  piece- 
meal— until,  a  sadder  ruin  than  fire  leaves,  it  faced 
the  sunset  and  the  prairie. 

"That  farm  belonged  to  as  hard-working,  smart 
a  feller  as  ever  handled  a  plow.  Look  at  them  fields, 
gone  to  desolation  like  everything  else,  but  the  fur- 
rows used  to  be  as  straight's  a  line  with  a  ruler.  He 
fought  the  hard  times  and  the  drought  till  his  wife 
died,  and  then  he  said  to  me,  I'm  beat ;  I'm  going  to 
take  the  baby  back  to  Winnie's  folks.  If  I'd  only 
gone  last  year  I  could  have  took  Winnie,  too.  The 
company  kin  have  my  farm,  and  I  hope  to  God  it'll 
be  the  curse  to  them  it's  been  to  me !'  There  the  farm 
is.  And  look  further  down" — shifting  the  switch  to 
another  direction — "there's  another  dropping  to 
181 


STORIES   THAT   END   WELL 

pieces.  Lord,  when  I  think  of  the  stories  they  told  me 
about  the  crops  when  I  fust  came  and  put  in  four 
hundred  dollars  that  I'd  worked  hard  for  in  a  saw- 
mill, and  I  think  how  we  used  to  set  'round  the  fire 
evenings,  my  wife  and  I,  talking  about  how  the  town 
was  a-growing  and  what  it  would  be  when  the  trees 
was  growed  and  our  children  was  going  to  school, 
and  how  we'd  have  a  cabinet  organ  and  we'd  have  a 
top  buggy,  and  we'd  send  for  her  mother,  who  didn't 
jest  like  it  with  Bill's  wife — we  was  jest  like  chil- 
dren, making  believe!  But  that  ain't  what  I  was 
driving  at.  Here  it  is.  We  calculated  that  we'd  be 
let  alone,  because  the  poor,  miserable  remnants  of 
stock  and  machines  and  farms  we  got  simply  wasn't 
worth  outside  folks  taking,  and  inside  folks  wouldn't 
risk  their  lives  by  dispossessing  us.  That's  how 
we  sized  it  up,  ain't  it?" 

"I  don't  see  yet  what  you're  after,  Wesley." 
"You  will.     We  reasoned  that  way.     But  along 
comes  this  company,  this — trust,  that's  clean  against 
the  laws  and  don't  give  a  curse  for  that,  and  it  buys 
up  the  whole  outfit.    I  tell  you,  Mr.  Robbins,  there 
ain't  five  men  in  this  community  that  that  trust  ain't 
got  the  legal  right  to  turn  out  on  the  prairies  to-mor- 
182 


THE    SPELLBINDER 

row.  They've  all  been  foreclosed,  and  the  year  of 
grace  is  up.  Most  of  us  here  ain't  got  no  show  at  all 
— legally.  And  so  they  send  a  man  down  here  to  see 
about  gitting  out  writs  and  finishing  us  up." 

"But  who'll  they  get  to  buy,  Wesley  Orr?" 

'They're  not  needing  much  buying.  They're  on 
to  a  new  scheme — going  to  turn  all  these  farms  into 
big  pastures  and  fatten  cattle  with  alfalfa,  raise  it 
and  ship  it ;  then  the  lower  part  of  the  county,  down 
below  town,  they  intend  to  run  a  ditch  through  from 
the  river  and  irrigate  it.  They  will  fetch  in  a  colony 
who'll  pay  them  about  ten  times  what  they  paid,  I 
expect,  and — " 

"But  we  won't  let  them — " 

"Depends  on  how  many  guns  the  colony's  got  and 
how  much  fight  there's  in  it.  They'll  try  it,  anyhow, 
unless — " 

"Unless — "  repeated  Robbins  uneasily. 

"Unless  they're  scared  off,  unless  they  think  it's 
death  for  a  man  to  tackle  us." 

Robbins  rubbed  his  hands  harder;  he  bit  his  lip. 

A  little  space  of  silence  fell  between  them.    Off  to 

the  south,  where  the  little  town  was  set  like  an  island 

in  the  darkening  prairie,  the  lights  began  to  twinkle; 

183 


STORIES    THAT    END    WELL 

they  were  yellow  and  scattered.  Even  at  that  dis- 
tance one  could  tell  that  they  burned  few  to  the 
house. 

"I  kinder  wish,"  said  Robbins,  "that  he  came  from 
another  town." 

"What's  the  difference  about  the  town?" 

"Oh,  none,  I  guess.  But  that  town,  it's  in  Iowa, 
and  it  sent  the  best  things  we've  ever  had.  One 
woman  put  in  a  lot  of  jams  and  jellies  and  tea — such 
tea!  My  wife  was  sick  then,  and  I  didn't  know  but 
I'd  lose  her.  I  gave  her  some  of  that  tea  and  some 
jam,  and  she  began  to  pick  up  from  that  day.  It  was 
a  quince  jam,  and  made  her  think  of  home,  she  said. 
Her  father  was  a  Connecticut  man,  and  they  had  an 
orchard  with  quince  trees  in  it — I  remember —  '  He 
did  not  finish  the  sentence,  but  he  sighed  as  he  ab- 
sently ran  his  eye  over  the  gaps  in  the  harness 
mended  with  rope. 

"I  bet  he  didn't  have  nothing  to  do  with  that  box," 
said  Orr;  "most  like,  the  people  sent  us  that  were 
poor  folks  themselves,  and  had  to  pinch  to  make  up 
for  the  things  they  sent  us.  Tain't  the  rich  people 
are  sorriest  for  poor  folks.  This  young  Wallace — 
his  father's  the  owner  of  a  big  paper,  and  rich  be- 
184 


THE    SPELLBINDER 

sides,  and  he's  got  this  boy  in  training  for  editor; 
and  when  that  first  duck  couldn't  do  nothing  out 
here,  the  old  man  said  he'd  buy  in,  and  the  young 
one  thought  it  a  mighty  smart  thing  to  do  to  come 
over  here  and  turn  a  lot  of  half-starved  women  and 
children  out  in  winter.  What's  he  care?  What  do 
any  of  these  rich  folks  care?" 

"I  don't  think  you're  fair,  Wesley,"  said  Robbins. 
"All  the  rich  folks  aren't  mean.  I  know  more  about 
them  than  you."  He  spoke  with  a  dawning  of  pride 
in  his  tone,  which  deepened  a  little. 

"Yes,  I  know  you  used  to  belong  to  them,"  said 
Orr,  "and  I  guess  you  were  decent  to  the  poor.  But 
you'll  admit  you  didn't  have  no  notion  how  it  cuts 
to  work  every  muscle  in  you  and  to  lay  awake  think- 
ing yourself  half  crazy  to  puzzle  out  better  ways  to 
make  money  and  yet  to  feel  every  year  you're  a-sink- 
ing  deeper  in  the  slough!  I've  worked  five  years 
here,  and  'cepting  the  first  year,  every  single  year 
has  piled  interest  on  the  mortgage.  Every  year  we've 
had  less  clothes  to  wear  and  poorer  stuff  to  eat,  and 
it's  been  mend  instead  of  buy,  and  we've  had  more 
debts  and  more  worries  every  year.  I  tell  you,  Mr. 
Robbins,  I  thought  it  would  kill  me,  once,  to  come  on 


STORIES   THAT   END   [WELL 

the  county.  I'd  'a'  said  I'd  starve  first ;  but  you  can't 
see  your  wife  and  children  starve.  I  went  in  last 
winter,  and  asked  for  relief.  I'd  that  old  hound  dog 
of  mine  with  me;  you  knowed  him.  He'd  been  a 
good  dog.  He  come  with  us  when  we  come  here, 
running  under  the  wagon.  All  the  children  had 
played  with  him.  I  took  him  into  town,  and  I  asked 
every  one  I  knowed  would  he  have  that  dog  for  a 
gift;  I  showed  off  all  his  tricks,  feeling  like  I  was 
dirty  mean  deceiving  him,  for  I  done  it  so  somebody 
would  be  willing  to  take  him  home  and  feed  him 
and  take  care  of  him,  for  it's  God's  truth  I  hadn't 
enough  for  him  and  the  children  too.  But  nobody 
wanted  him ;  he  was  pretty  old,  and  he  wasn't  never 
handsome.  And  one  store  I  was  in,  as  I  went  out 
I  heard  a  drummer  that  was  trying  to  sell  goods  say, 
'I  saw  that  feller  at  the  Relief,  but  I  notice  he's  able 
to  keep  a  dog.  Lets  the  children  go  hungry  ruther'n 
the  dog,  I  guess.'  I  kinder  turned  on  him,  then  I 
turned  back  again,  and  I  whistled  to  Sport,  and  I 
looked  at  him  and  saw  how  his  ribs  showed  and  his 
eyes  was  kinder  sunk.  He  wagged  his  tail  and 
yelped  like  he  used  to,  seeing  me  look  at  him ;  and 
then  I  went  straight  to  that  drug-store  Billy  used 
1 86 


THE    SPELLBINDER 

to  keep — Billy  Harvey.  He  moved  away  last  year ; 
he  was  a  good  friend  of  mine.  I  said  to  him,  'Billy, 
you  got  something  that  would  kill  a  dog  in  a  flash, 
so  he'd  never  suffer  or  know  what  hurt  him?'  And 
Billy — he  understood,  and  he  said  he  had.  'You  jest 
put  it  on  his  tongue  and  he'd  never  know  what  killed 
him.'  Billy  was  sorry  for  me.  He  gave  it  to  me 
for  nothing,  and  he  gave  me  some  bones  and  corn 
bread  and  milk;  so  Sport  had  a  good  dinner.  And 
he  come  right  up  to  me  and  looked  me  in  the  eyes, 
wagging  his  tail.  His  eyes  was  kinder  dim,  but  they 
was  just  as  loving  as  ever.  And  he  was  wagging  his 
tail  when  he  dropped.  Then  I  went  home,  and  the 
children  asked  me  where  was  Sport,  and  little  Peggy 
cried — oh,  Lord!" 

"It  was  awful  hard  on  you,  Wesley,"  said  Robbins 
gently. 

"I  suppose  it  wasn't  nothing  to  what  some  men 
have  suffered.  There  was  poor  Tommy  Walker, 
give  up  his  farm  when  it  was  foreclosed — thought  he 
had  to — and  went  off  tramping  to  Kansas  City,  and 
after  he'd  tramped  a  week  there,  looking  for  a  job, 
give  it  up  and  jumped  into  the  river.  And  you  know 
how  old  man  Osgood  killed  himself,  honest  a  old 
187 


STORIES    THAT    END    WELL 

man  as  ever  lived ;  always  kept  his  machines  under 
cover,  too;  he  couldn't  stand  it.  They  found  it 
harder — and  lots  more,  too;  but  I've  found  it  hard 
enough.  And  I  know  I'd  shoot  that  sneaking,  sneer- 
ing young  Shylock,  and  not  mind  it  near  so  much  as 
I  minded  killing  poor  Sport." 

"I  don't  know  but  we'd  all  better  quit,"  said  the 
younger  man  with  a  sigh.  "This  isn't  a  living  coun- 
try. Three  years  of  drought  would  break  any  coun- 
try up.  It's  not  meant  to  live  in.  We  had  a  fair 
crop  this  year,  but  it's  so  low ;  and  freights,  though 
they're  lower,  are  pretty  high.  I  don't  see  any  way 
out  of  it.  And  I  declare  I  think  if  we  run  this  young 
fellow  off  we'll  only  get  a  bad  name  for  the  place." 

"I  don't  care  for  bad  names,"  said  the  other  sul- 
lenly. "I  got  a  wife  and  three  children;  I  was  fore- 
closed a  year  ago — so's  you,  so's  a  lot  of  the  boys ; 
we're  at  the  end  of  our  string  now — legally.  So 
what  did  we  say?  We  said  we  didn't  care,  was  it 
legal  or  illegal ;  that  laws  was  made  to  skin  the  poor 
man ;  and  we  elected  a  sheriff  we  could  depend  on 
not  to  enforce  the  laws,  and  we  druv  off  the  blood- 
suckers they  sent  out  here.  They  say  one  feller  was 
killed.  I  don't  know.  Guess  that's  one  of  Doc  Rus- 
188 


THE   SPELLBINDER 

sell's  stories.  The  boys  talk  a  lot  about  the  cause  of 
all  this  here  trouble,  and  how  we're  going  to  have 
a  revolution,  and  how  referendum  and  initiendum 
will  help,  and  how  free  silver  will  help — I  guess, 
myself,  a  little  more  rain  three  years  ago  when  corn 
was  up  would,  have  helped  more'n  anything — and 
they  talk  how  they're  fighting  the  battles  of  the  poor 
man,  and  the  Eastern  bloodsuckers  has  ruined  us, 
and  the  Shylocks  are  devouring  us,  and  they  holler 
the  roof  off.  I  listen  to  'em,  but  I  don't  believe  'em 
any  more  than  you  do." 

"But,"  interrupted  the  other  man  eagerly,  "I 
voted  with  the  people's  party — " 

"Of  course  you  did.  We  was  going  to  be  unani- 
mous, and  you  dass'n't  stand  out;  but  you  didn't 
believe  in  it.  Me  neither.  I  ain't  makin'  any  pre- 
tense, but  I'll  tell  you  it's  jest  here — I'm  down  to 
bed-rock.  If  I  let  my  farm  be  took  away  and  my 
stock,  what's  going  to  become  of  my  wife  and  chil- 
dren ?  You  can  call  it  stealing,  or  resisting  the  law, 
or  anything  you  please,  but  I'll  kill  that  feller  before 
I'll  let  him  turn  me  out." 

"Don't  you  think  we  can  scare  him  off?  Killing's 
a  nasty  word." 

189 


STORIES    THAT   END   WELL 

"My  father  was  with  John  Brown ;  he  helped  kill 
a  man.  He  never  lost  no  sleep  about  it;  I  shan't 
neither.  Look  here,  Mr.  Robbins,  I  got  lots  of  time 
to  think,  winters — lots.  Remorse  and  all  them  fine 
feelings  you  read  of,  they  don't  belong  to  folks  that 
are  way  down  in  thq  dirt.  You  got  to  have  some- 
thing to  eat  and  wear,  and  not  have  your  stomach 
sassing  you,  and  you  half  froze  most  of  the  time  ; 
when  your  body  is  in  sech  a  fix  it's  keeping  your 
mind  so  full  there  ain't  any  show  for  any  other  feel- 
ings. And  look  a'  here,  there's  worse" — his  voice 
sank.  "Why,  you  git  to  that  pass  you  ain't  able  to 
feel  for  your  own  wife  and  babies.  When  this  morn- 
ing Peggy  kept  hushing  the  baby,  and  she  was  fret- 
ting and  moaning,  and  Peggy  says  to  me,  couldn't 
I  git  a  little  crackers  in  town ;  maybe  the  baby  could 
eat  them  ?  I  didn't  feel  nothing  'cept  a  numb  aching. 
I  kept  saying,  'I'd  'a'  felt  that,  once !'  But  I  didn't 
feel  it  now.  And,  all  of  a  sudden,  it  come  to  me 
'twas  because  I  was  gitting  past  feeling — like  you 
do  when  you're  froze,  jest  before  you  die.  I  read  a 
story  once,  when  I  was  a  little  shaver,  that  kept  me 
awake  nights  many  a  time.  It  was  about  a  Russian 
nobleman  out  sleigh-riding  with  his  children,  three  of 
190 


THE    SPELLBINDER 

'em,  on  one  of  them  steppes ;  and  the  wolves  chased 
them.  The  father  had  a  pistol,  and  he  would  shoot 
one  of  the  wolves,  and  then  the  cowardly  cusses 
would  stop  to  tear  the  wounded  critter  to  pieces 
and  eat  him,  giving  the  folks  in  the  sleigh  a 
little  more  time;  but  every  time  the  distance 
between  the  wolves  and  them  when  they  stopped 
was  a  little  smaller;  but  they  were  getting  closer 
to  the  town,  and  they  could  see  the  lights.  So 
the  father,  he  kept  on  shooting,  until  the  wolves 
were  jumping  up  and  grabbing  at  the  sleigh,  and  the 
last  time  he  shot  a  wolf  he  used  up  his  last  cartridge ; 
then,  when  they  come  after  him  again,  when  the 
lights  were  nearer,  and  he  knew  if  he  could  stop  'em 
once  more  he  could  escape,  he — he  throwed  out  one 
of  the  children;  because  it  was  this  way:  if  he 
jumped  out  himself  the  children  were  so  little  they 
couldn't  drive,  and  they'd  be  tipped  up,  and  all  three 
of  them  lost,  so  he  throwed  out  the  child  he  loved 
the  best,  and  they  got  to  town  safely;  but  he  went 
raving  crazy.  Well,  I  thought  of  him,  and  I  said, 
if  baby  died  there'd  be  the  more  chance  for  the 
others — " 

"Look  here,  Wesley,"  his  companion  interrupted, 
191 


STORIES    THAT    END    WELL 

"quit  it!  You're  getting  light-headed.  Get  rid  of 
such  fool  thoughts  as  those  or  you'll  be  going  off 
to  the  insane  asylum;  and  mighty  little  use  your 
family  will  have  of  you  there  I" 

Orr  gave  him  no  answer.  Robbins  watched  his 
impassive  face  and  frowned. 

"He's  not  bad-hearted,  but  he's  desperate.  You 
can't  appeal  to  a  desperate  man,"  he  thought,  "and 
the  other  boys  are  the  same  way.  There'll  be  wild 
work  there  to-night,  unless  that  young  fool  has  the 
papers  with  him  and  will  give  them  up.  You're  a 
fool,  George  Robbins,  to  mix  yourself  up  in  it  on 
the  chance  of  getting  a  few  dollars  from  a  Kansas 
City  paper  for  a  telegram !" 

Silently  the  two  men  looked  at  the  nearing  lights, 
while  the  wagon  creaked  and  swayed  and  rattled 
over  the  road. 

"We  got  to  save  the  lantern  to  go  home  by,"  Orr 
remarked  at  last,  "else  I'd  light  up;  they  ain't  got 
any  more  lights  in  the  streets.  But  I  guess  we  can 
see." 

There  were  enough  lights  in  the  windows  to  re- 
veal the  wide  untidiness  of  the  street,  the  black, 
boarded  windows  of  the  empty  shops,  the  gaps  in 
192 


THE    SPELLBINDER 

the  sidewalk,  the  haggard  gardens,  where  savage 
winds  had  blown  the  heart  out  of  deserted  rose-trees 
and  geraniums.  In  general  the  sky-line  was  low 
and  the  roofs  the  simplest  peaks;  but  it  was  broken 
in  a  few  places  by  three  and  four  storied  brick  build- 
ings of  the  florid  pomp  on  which  a  raw  Western 
town  loves  to  lavish  its  money.  Now  they  loomed, 
dark  and  silent,  landmarks  of  vanished  ambition. 
Robbins,  who  was  a  man  of  parts  and  education, 
with  a  fanciful  turn,  felt  the  air  of  defeat  and  desola- 
tion hanging  over  the  town  choke  him  like  miasma. 
To  him  the  dreariness  was  the  more  poignant  for  the 
half  a  dozen  little  shops  that  still  flickered  their  chal- 
lenge to  fate  in  the  guise  of  a  dim  coal-oil  lamp  in  the 
window.  There  appeared  to  be  no  customers  at 
these  dismal  marts ;  in  some  cases  not  even  the  shop- 
keeper was  visible,  and  only  the  stove  in  the  rear  of 
the  room  kept  a  lonesome  red  eye  on  the  shelves. 
The  sole  sparks  of  life  in  the  place  were  at  the  hotel. 
It  had  been  built  "during  the  boom" — a  large  rec- 
tangle of  wood,  with  a  cheap  and  gaudy  piazza.,  all 
painted  four  shades  of  green,  which  the  climate  Jiad 
burned  and  blistered  and  bleached  into  one  sickly, 
mottled  brown.  Long  ago  the  stables  of  the  hostelry 
193 


STORIES   THAT    END   .WELL 

had  been  abandoned,  but  this  night  the  stable  yard 
was  full  of  wagons. 

The  upper  story  of  the  hotel  was  dark,  and  the 
greater  part  of  the  lower  story;  but  the  kitchen  was 
bright,  and  yellow  light  leaked  through  every  chink 
and  crack  in  the  office  blinds. 

"Boys  have  turned  out  well,  I  guess,"  said  Rob- 
bins. 

'They  better  turn  out!"  said  Orr. 

No  word  was  spoken  by  either  while  they  un- 
hitched their  horses,  led  them  within  the  sheds,  and 
tied  them  among  the  sorry  company  already  housed. 
Robbins  noted  that  after  Orr  had  laid  the  blanket 
which  had  served  them  for  robe  on  one  thin  back,  he 
flung  his  own  quilt  over  the  other.  Then  they  stum- 
bled (for  they  were  unwieldy  with  cold)  through  the 
yard  to  the  hotel. 

The  office  was  full  of  men,  gathered  about  the 
stove,  talking  to  each  other.  The  innkeeper  sat  be- 
hind his  counter,  affecting  to  busy  himself  with  a 
blotted  ledger.  Originally  he  had  been  a  stout  man, 
but  he  had  lost  flesh  of  late  years.  He  was  wrinkled 
and  flabby,  and  the  furtive  eyeshots  that  he  cast  to- 
ward the  stove  were  anxious  beyond  his  concealing. 
194 


THE    SPELLBINDER 

Any  one,  however,  could  perceive  that  matters  of 
heavy  import  were  being  discussed.  The  miserably 
clad  men  about  the  stove  all  looked  sullen.  There 
was  none  of  the  easy-going  badinage  so  habitual 
with  Westerners.  They  exchanged  glances  rather 
than  words;  what  words  were  spoken  were  uttered 
in  low  tones. 

"Where  is  he?"  said  Orr,  in  the  same  undertone 
to  a  large  man  in  a  buffalo  coat.  The  large  man  was 
the  sheriff  of  the  county.  He  jerked  his  thumb  over 
his  shoulder  in  the  direction  of  the  dining-room. 

"What's  he  like?" 

"Little  feller  with  a  game  leg." 

Orr  frowned.  Robbins  felt  uncomfortable.  A 
gaunt  man  on  the  outskirts  of  the  circle  added :  "He's 
powerful  slick,  though ;  you  can  bet  your  life.  That 
girl  Susy  is  all  won  over  already ;  and  she's  suspect- 
ing something,  sure's  shooting.  I  guess  she's  warned 
him  there's  something  in  the  air." 

"Well,  if  there  is,  I  don't  know  it,"  said  the  sher- 
iff. 

"You  never  will  know  anything  about  it,  either,"  a 
gray-haired  man  added. 

"That's  right,  Kinney,"  two  or  three  spoke  at 
195 


STORIES    THAT    END    WELL 

cnce.  But  immediately  a  silence  fell  on  them.  Rob- 
bins,  who  felt  himself  an  outsider,  could  see  that  the 
others  drew  closer  together.  Once  or  twice  he 
caught  sinister  murmurs.  He  began  to  wish  that  he 
had  not  come. 

"It  would  be  no  earthly  use  for  me  to  chip  in 
and  try  to  soften  them,"  he  thought.  "They're 
crazy  with  defeat  and  misery  and  the  fool  stuff  cam- 
paign orators  have  crammed  down  their  throats." 

Just  then  the  dining-room  door  opened,  and  Rob- 
bins  was  the  only  one  of  the  group  to  turn  his  head. 
The  other  men  gazed  at  the  fire,  and  the  heavy 
silence  grew  heavier. 

The  man  who  came  out  of  the  room  was  young, 
slight  of  figure,  and  he  limped  a  little.  Nevertheless, 
there  was  nothing  of  dejection  in  his  bearing  or  his 
face.  He  was  freckled  to  a  degree,  smooth-shaven, 
and  his  teeth  were  beautiful.  He  had  fine  eyes  also, 
a  deep  blue,  flashing  like  steel  as  they  moved  from 
one  object  to  another.  The  eyes  were  keen,  alert, 
and  determined;  but  being  set  rather  wide  apart 
under  his  light  brows,  they  gave  the  face  a  candid, 
almost  artless,  look,  and  when  he  smiled  the  deep 
dimple  in  his  cheek  made  it  as  merry  as  a  child's. 
196 


THE    SPELLBINDER 

"Good  evening,  gentlemen,"  said  he  cheerfully. 
No  one  responded.  Robbins  made  a  gurgle  in  his 
throat,  which  the  newcomer  generously  accepted  for 
salutation,  promptly  approaching  the  fire  at  Robbins' 
elbow. 

"Cold  weather,"  said  he.  Two  or  three  of  the 
company  lifted  their  heads  and  eyed  the  speaker. 
Robbins  wondered  were  they  as  keenly  conscious  as 
he  of  the  young  fellow's  trimly  fitted  clothes,  what 
good  quality  that  rough  plaided  brown  stuff  was, 
how  dainty  was  his  linen.  He  looked  at  the  home  peo- 
ple's ragged  coats,  he  thought  of  the  poverty  that 
he  knew,  and  the  reflection  of  a  sneer  was  on  his  own 
lips,  and,  somehow,  a  lump  in  his  throat. 

"Too  cold  weather  for  folks  to  travel  unless 
they're  wanted  bad!"  said  the  gray-haired  man  on 
the  edge  of  the  company.  There  was  a  thrill  of 
some  strong  feeling  in  his  deep  voice. 

"It  does  seem  that  way,"  agreed  the  young  man 
with  undiminished  vivacity.  "I  am  glad  to  get  to  a 
shelter.  By  the  way,  I  hear  this  is  a  dry  town.  Will 
some  of  you  gentlemen  have  something  with  me?" 
He  had  pulled  out  a  flask  and  was  flashing  his  bril- 
liant smile  at  Robbins. 

197 


STORIES   THAT    END   .WELL 

"No,  thank  you,  I  don't  drink,"  said  Robbins ;  but 
he  felt  his  throat  itching  at  the  sight. 

"We'll  drink  your  licker  after  we've  finished  our 
business  with  you,"  the  gray  man  struck  in.  He  was 
old  Captain  Sparks,  who  had  been  very  bitter  since 
his  eldest  son  went  crazy  with  overwork  and  sun- 
stroke and  killed  himself.  The  other  men  laughed. 
They  looked  at  each  other ;  they  looked  with  goading 
hate  in  their  dull  eyes  at  the  stranger;  and  they 
laughed. 

"Here,  Johnny,"  said  the  young  man,  taking  no 
notice,  "run  up  to  twenty-five  and  fetch  me  the  bag 
there,  the  black  one.  If  we  are  to  drink  to  our  busi- 
ness, I  want  you  all  to  join.  You  are  all  interested, 
I  take  it?  And  get  some  glasses  while  you  are 
about  it." 

The  boy  whom  he  addressed,  the  landlord's  son, 
a  lad  of  twelve,  had  been  busy  staring  at  the  stranger 
ever  since  he  entered  the  room.  He  ran  away,  but 
as  he  ran  could  not  restrain  himself  from  flinging 
one  or  two  glances  back  over  his  shoulder. 

"Don't  you  smoke,  either?"  said  the  stranger  to 
Robbins,  his  hand  to  his  breast  pocket. 

"Only  a  pipe,"  answered  Robbins.  He  wished  that 
198 


THE    SPELLBINDER 

he  didn't  feel  an  absurd,  morbid  sympathy  for  the 
poor  fool's  pluck  sneaking  into  his  consciousness. 

"What  are  we  waiting  for?"  The  captain  whis- 
pered it  to  a  mild-eyed,  short-bearded  man  next 
him;  but  the  captain's  whisper  carried  far.  "Aw, 
give  him  rope!"  suggested  the  mild-eyed  man; 
"maybe  he  ain't  so  sandy 's  he  seems." 

Not  seeming  to  recognize  any  chill  in  his  recep- 
tion, the  young  stranger  approached  the  stove.  No 
one  moved  to  admit  him  to  the  inner  circle;  this, 
also,  he  did  not  seem  to  observe.  "This  whole 
country  looks  as  if  you  had  been  having  hard  times/' 
he  continued.  His  voice  had  full,  rich,  magnetic 
notes,  but  its  unfamiliar  intonations  jarred  on  his 
hearers ;  they  knew  them  to  belong  to  the  East,  and 
they  hated  the  East.  "It's  pretty  sad  to  ride  through 
miles  and  miles  of  farming  country  and  see  the 
burned  fence-posts  that  caught  fire  from  the  cinders, 
just  lying  where  they  fell,  and  the  smoke  not  coming 
out  of  one  farm-house  chimney  in  six.  It  looks  as 
if  the  farmers  out  this  way  had  simply  given  up  the 
fight." 

"You've  hit  it,"  said  the  mild-eyed  man;  "they 
have.  Some  of  them  have  moved  away  and  some 
199 


STORIES   THAT    END   WELL 

of  them  have  killed  themselves,  after  they've  lost 
their  stock  on  chattel  mortgages  and  lost  their  land 
to  the  improvement  company.  There  ought  to  be 
lots  of  ghosts  on  those  abandoned  farms  and  in  those 
houses  where  the  fences  are  down.  This  country  is 
full  of  ghosts.  We  ain't  much  better  than  ghosts 
ourselves." 

"It  was  the  three  dry  years,  I  suppose." 

"That  and  the  mortgage  sharks  and  the  Shylocks 
from  the  East,"  old  Captain  Sparks  interrupted  in  a 
venomous  tone;  "what  pickings  the  drought  left 
they  got." 

"Pretty  rough!"  said  the  stranger,  declining  the 
combat  again.  "There's  one  man  I  want  to  meet 
here;  his  name  is  Russell — Doctor  Russell." 

The  mild-eyed  man  explained  that  his  name  was 
Russell;  the  other  men  looked  puzzled  and  suspi- 
cious. "What's  his  little  game?"  whispered  the  cap- 
tain. "It  won't  go,  whatever  it  is,"  said  the  man 
next  him.  Robbins  heard  question  and  answer  dis- 
tinctly ;  but  the  young  fellow  near  him  did  not  wince. 
"Are  you  the  one  that  wrote  to  Fairport,  Doctor 
Russell  ?  I  guess  you  must  be." 

"Yes,  I  wrote  to  Fairport,"  said  Russell. 
200 


THE    SPELLBINDER 

"Well,  I  hope  you  liked  the  barrel  we  sent,  and 
the  boxes.  They  were  going  to  send  them  to  another 
place,  but  your  letter  decided  us.  That's  my  church, 
you  know,  which  sent  them.  And,  for  that  matter, 
it  was  your  letter  first  turned  my  father's  attention 
to  investing  in  your  part  of  the  country.  Oh,  tell 
me,  where  did  that  tea  go?  My  mother  would  send 
her  best  London  mixture — " 

"Was  it  your  mother?"  Robbins  spoke.  With  a 
red  face  and  a  flash  of  his  eyes  at  the  sullen  group 
about  him,  he  withdrew  his  chair,  making  a  clear 
passage  to  the  stove.  "I'd  like  to  thank  her,  then, 
and  her  son  for  her;  that  tea  and  that  quince  jam — • 
whose  was  the  quince  jam?" 

"I  rather  think  my  mother  put  that  in,  too." 

"Well,  it  almost  cured  my  wife;  it  was  better  than 
medicine,  that  and  the  tea,  for,  not  to  mention  that 
we  couldn't  get  any  medicine,  it  put  heart  into  her  as 
medicine  couldn't.  I  wonder  was  it  your  mother,  or 
who  was  it  put  in  that  volume  of  college  songs?  / 
got  that.  You  wouldn't  think  it,  but  I'm  a  university 
man — Harvard — ' ' 

The  young  fellow  caught  his  hand  and  gripped  it 
hard.  "Harvard?  So  am  I— Martin  Wallace, '92." 

2OI 


STORIES    THAT    END   WELL 

"My  name  is  George  Robbins,  and  I'm  a  good  deal 
farther  back;  and,  as  you  can  see,  I'm  down  on  my 
luck.  But  there's  no  need  going  into  my  hard-luck 
story;  it's  like  a  lot  of  our  stories  here.  You  see 
where  we  are — hardly  shoes  to  our  feet ;  not  because 
we  have  been  shiftless  or  idle,  or  have  wronged  any- 
body ;  yet  the  cutthroats  and  thieves  in  the  peniten- 
tiary have  had  better  fare  and  suffered  less  with  cold 
and  hunger  than  we  have.  And  it's  not  that  we  are 
fools,  either;  we're  not  uneducated.  There  are  at 
least  three  other  college  men  in  our  community; 
there's  Doc  Russell — " 

"I  am,"  drawled  Russell ;  "much  good  it's  done 
me ;  but  I  won  honors  at  the  University  of  Iowa." 

"I  didn't  win  any  honors,  but  I  went  to  the  State 
University — was  graduated  there  before  I  went  to 
Harvard.     But — you  aren't  Teddy  Russell,  Teddy 
Russell  of  the  Glee  Club  and  the  football  eleven?" 
"Yes,  I  am  Teddy  Russell." 
"E.  D.  Russell,  of  course;  why  didn't  I  guess? 
You  were  there  two  years  before  me,  but  I  daresay 
they  are  talking  of  you  still ;  and  the  way  you  won 
a  touchdown  with  a  broken  rib  on  you,  and  the  time 
all  the  rest  of  the  Glee  Club  missed  the  train  at 
202 


THE    SPELLBINDER 

Fairport,  going  to  Lone  Tree,  and  you  went  on  with 
the  banjoes  and  were  the  whole  thing  for  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour!  Well,  I'm  glad  to  meet  you, 
Doctor.  Let  us  have  a  good  song  or  two  together 
after  business." 

Russell  unconsciously  felt  for  the  cravat  which 
was  not  round  his  soiled  and  frayed  collar;  he  but- 
toned his  wreck  of  a  frock  coat.  "Yes,  we  will,"  he 
began,  but  his  voice  stuck  in  his  throat  as  the  cap- 
tain's rough  grasp  gripped  his  arm. 

"I  guess  not,"  said  the  captain;  "business  first, 
young  feller!" 

Russell  shook  off  the  hand,  muttering  something 
too  low  for  Robbins'  ear;  but  Robbins  sidled  nearer 
to  him,  so  near  that  he  was  able  to  exchange  a  single 
glance  and  to  see  Russell's  lips  form  the  words, 
"Watch  Orr !"  They  understood  each  other. 

"Weren't  you  from  Ann  Arbor  yourself,  Cap- 
tain?" said  Robbins,  grabbing  at  any  straw  of  peace. 

"I've  been  too  poor  ever  since  the  war  to  remem- 
ber whether  I  ever  had  a  college  education  or  not," 
retorted  the  captain  with  a  sneer.  "I  belong  to  the 
people  now ;  their  cause  is  my  cause.  W'here  do  you 
belong?  We've  tended  your  folks  when  you  were 
203 


STORIES   THAT    END    WELL 

sick,  and  helped  you  lay  by  your  crops,  and  driven 
the  mortgage  sharks  off  your  stuff.  Say,  what  are 
you  doing  now?  Are  you  monkeying  around  to 
turn  traitor  or  coward,  or  what's  the  matter?" 

"We're  all  right,  Captain,"  answered  Russell,  the 
western  burr  on  his  tongue  as  soft  and  leisurely  as 
ever,  and  no  hint  of  excitement  in  his  manner;  "but 
I  see  no  harm  in  letting  Mr.  Wallace  answer  our 
questions  before  we  fly  off  the  handle."  So  saying, 
before  the  captain  realized  his  purpose  he  edged 
through  the  crowd  to  Wallace's  side.  Robbins  fol- 
lowed him;  and  the  eyes  of  all  the  others  turned  to 
the  three  menacing  and  eager. 

"All  I  ask  is  to  answer  questions  and  to  make  my 
proposition  to  you,"  said  Wallace,  his  fearless  young 
eyes  running  round  the  circle.  "If  you  don't  like  it 
you  can  refuse  and  send  me  home — to  make  other 
arrangements." 

"No,  we  ain't  going  to  send  you  home,"  said  Orr. 
It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  spoken.  Wallace 
flashed  a  keen  glance  at  him  and  spoke  his  next 
words  directly  to  him.  "But  I'm  sure  you  won't 
want  to  do  it.  You  see,  I'm  your  last  chance  and 
you  have  to  examine  it !" 

204 


THE    SPELLBINDER 

They  had  not  expected  such  an  answer.  A  little 
vibration  ran  like  a  wave  over  the  gaunt,  ferociously 
attentive  faces.  Wallace's  eyes  were  fixed  on  Orr's 
face,  which  did  not  change.  Orr's  hand  was  in  the 
breast  of  his  ragged  waistcoat. 

"You  people  have  certainly  had  the  devil's  own 
time  and  through  no  fault  of  yours,  unless  it's  a 
fault  that  you  aren't  quitters !" 

"That's  right,"  said  Robbins.  Orr's  eyes  narrowed 
a  little.  Wallace  continued,  not  taking  his  own  eyes 
off  the  farmer's  : 

"This  country  is  all  right  when  there's  a  good 
year,  but  the  good  years  come  so  seldom !  What  you 
fellows  need  down  here  is  not  free  silver,  but  free 
water.  With  plenty  of  water  you  can  raise  big  crops ; 
and  down  in  this  valley  there  is  not  the  danger,  if 
we  dig  ditches,  of  the  river  running  dry;  we  can 
get-" 

"And  who'll  pay  for  irrigation?"  a  voice  de- 
manded. Wallace  did  not  shift  his  gaze  to  the 
speaker;  he  talked  to  Orr  as  if  Orr  were  the  only 
man  in  the  room:  "We  expect  to  furnish  the 
money." 

"And  what  will  happen  till  the  ditches  are 
digged?" 

205 


STORIES    THAT    END   .WELL 

"There's  alfalfa  to  be  raised  on  all  these  aban- 
doned fields." 

"And  what's  to  become  of  us?"  said  Orr.  "I  can 
see  where  you  folks  can  git  a  holt  and  come  out 
even;  but  what's  going  to  become  of  us?  Are  we  to 
move  off  the  earth  and  let  you  stay  here?" 

Every  one  listened  for  Wallace's  answer.  Even 
the  boy  in  the  doorway,  returning  with  Wallace's 
bag,  stood  half  scared  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  not 
•daring  to  go  forward. 

"Why  not  stay  and  take  pot  luck  with  us?"  said 
Wallace,  coolly.  "We  bought  the  mortgages  cheap, 
and  we'll  sell  them  cheap.  We'll  sell  water  rights 
cheap  also.  And  you  will  make  better  colonists  than 
any  we  could  import — cheaper,  too.  It's  for  our 
interests  as  well  as  yours  to  make  a  deal  with  you 
and  to  make  one  that  will  be  satisfactory.  Isn't  it?" 
Orr's  hand  dropped  to  his  side,  he  shuffled  his  feet, 
his  eyes  turned  from  Wallace  to  seek  the  captain. 
"I  hadn't  figured  it  out  you  was  going  to  make  any 
such  proposition,"  said  the  captain. 

"Perhaps  you  thought  we  intended  to  chuck  you 
all  out  in  the  cold  and  hog  everything.   We  are  nei- 
ther such  pigs  nor  such  fools.  You  fellows  can  help 
206 


THE    SPELLBINDER 

us  more  than  anybody  else.  Here  is  Johnny.  Now, 
let's  come  to  business;  but  first,  Johnny,  get  some 
glasses.  We'll  all  drink  to  the  new  deal." 

And  afterwards  they  told  with  chuckles  how  even 
the  captain,  who  was  an  original  Prohibitionist  be- 
fore he  became  a  Populist,  touched  his  lips  to  the 
glass  that  was  passed  over  the  big  map. 

"All  you  folks  here  need  is  hope,"  said  the  cheer- 
ful young  lowan;  "you  have  plenty  of  pluck  and 
plenty  of  sense  and  oodles  of  experience;  and  we 
stand  ready  to  put  in  the  capital.  Now,  what  do  you 
say;  does  it  go?" 

After  an  hour  of  talk  over  the  maps,  he  repeated 
the  question,  and  the  captain  himself  led  the  chorus, 
"It  goes.  We'll  all  stand  by  you!" 

The  blizzard  had  not  come,  and  the  mo^n  was 
shining  when  George  Robbins  and  Wesley  Orr  drove 
home  from  town.  A  basket  was  carefully  held  on 
Orr's  knees.  Robbins  was  caroling  the  chorus  to 
"Johnny  Harvard"  and  wishing  a  health  to  him  and 
his  true  love  at  the  top  of  a  hoarse  and  husky  voice. 
Orr  looked  solemnly  ahead  into  the  little  wavering 
disk  of  radiance  that  their  lantern  cast.  Once  he 
shivered  violently,  but  he  was  not  cold.  Suddenly 
207 


STORIES   THAT   END   WELL 

he  spoke.  There  was  a  quiver  in  his  face  and  his 
voice,  but  all  he  said  was :  "Say,  he  was  dead  right. 
We  was  so  desperate  we  was  crazy.  Hope,  that  was 
what  we  needed,  and  he  give  it  to  us ;  but  how  some 
fellers  would  have  messed  that  job,  getting  round  to 
that  same  proposal  we  all  wanted  to  hug  him  for! 
And — I'm  glad  he  didn't.  I'm  almighty  glad  we 
didn't  git  a  chance  to  do  what  we  set  out  to  do.  He 
was  slick.  Say,  what  is  it  they  call  them  newspaper 
boys?  Spellbinders?  That's  him — a  first-class,  A- 
number-one  spellbinder!" 


208 


THE  OBJECT  OF  THE 
FEDERATION 

"Y  JOINED  a  woman's  club  in  the  Federation  a 
A   little  over  two  years  ago,"  said  Mrs.  Hardy.  "I 
didn't  know  what  was  the  object  then;  and  to  tell 
you  the  truth,  I  am  no  wiser  now." 

"You  know  as  much  as  I,"  was  her  neighbor's 
reply,  politely  given,  the  neighbor,  however,  feeling 
no  real  interest,  at  the  moment,  in  anything  outside 
the  approaching  election  of  president,  and  the  gossip 
regarding  a  possible  "dark  horse"  which  was  buzzing 
behind  her,  between  some  better  informed  members 
of  the  delegation. 

The  babble  of  mighty  waters  is  like  the  noise  that 
filled  the  theater.  It  surged  from  the  plant-bedecked 
platform  (where  it  might  be  likened  to  nothing  more 
resonant  than  the  hum  of  insects  of  a  summer  night) 
through  the  auditorium,  to  the  dais  under  the  bal- 
conies. The  dais  was  noisy,  always,  not  because  its 
occupants  were  any  more  inclined  to  talk  than  other 
209 


STORIES    THAT    END    WELL 

women,  but  because  it  was  the  rarest  thing  in  the 
world  for  them  to  hear  anyone  either  on  the  stage 
or  the  floor ;  and  generally,  they  had  to  vote  by  their 
eyes,  watching  the  advocates  of  their  pet  measures; 
and  rising  or  sitting  by  their  example ;  hence  they 
solaced  themselves  with  conversation. 

At  this  moment,  however,  the  quiet  gentlewoman 
with  the  gavel,  behind  the  long  table,  had  not  lifted 
her  hand;  and  the  upper  part  of  the  hall  (which  be- 
ing in  good  hearing  distance,  was  used  to  keep  silence 
and  criticise  the  talkers)  was  as  busy  with  tongues 
and  hands  as  its  neighbors.  So  Mrs.  Hardy,  smiling 
a  little  at  her  neighbor's  absent  glance,  listened  until 
her  thoughts  wandered  far  afield.  She  only  half 
caught  the  enthusiasm  of  the  neighbor  to  her  right, 
over  an  address  on  village  improvement,  or  the  in- 
dignation of  the  dames  to  the  left,  who  were  re- 
hearsing the  political  baseness  of  Massachusetts. 
She  was  recalling  a  day  thirty-three  years  ago.  She 
did  not  see  the  secretary  behind  the  table,  whispering 
to  the  president ;  she  did  not  notice  a  little  group  to 
the  left  near  where  the  silk  banner  of  Massachusetts 
fluttered,  putting  their  heads  together  and  gesticu- 
lating above  their  whispers.  She  forgot  her  sur- 

2IO 


THE   OBJECT    OF   THE   FEDERATION 

roundings  and  saw  only  a  tall  young  man  whose 
ardent  eyes  sank  as  they  met  her  own,  a  handsome 
young  fellow,  who  caught  her  hand  in  his,  as  they 
sat  alone  in  the  carriage,  driving  to  the  depot,  and 
kissed  the  fingers  and  the  wedding-ring,  crying  out 
he  was  not  half  good  enough  for  her.  "He  was  in 
love  with  me,  then!"  she  thought.  But  now?  Well, 
it  was  not  to  be  expected  a  man  with  a  great  business 
and  cares  and  money  to  think  about  and  political 
affairs  (for  they  were  importuning  Darius  to  go 
to  the  senate)  should  be  paying  romantic  compli- 
ments to  his  middle-aged  wife.  Nevertheless,  Da- 
rius had  never  forgotten  their  anniversary  until  last 
year.  On  her  reminding  him,  he  had  whistled  and 
laughed.  "So  it  is,"  says  he,  "we  ought  to  spend  it 
together ;  it's  a  shame  I  have  to  go  to  Chicago ;  why 
don't  you  come  with  me  ?" 

Smiling  (yet  a  foolish  something  not  merry  was 
twitching  at  her  nerves),  she  had  declined.  But  she 
made  a  good  excuse ;  Darius  never  guessed  that  she 
was  so  silly  as  to  mind ;  and  he  brought  her  a  sweet 
pigeon-blood  ruby  ring,  set  in  diamonds,  from  Chi- 
cago; and  he  kissed  her  when  he  slipped  it  on  her 
finger — kissed  her  cheek,  not  her  hand.  She  won- 
211 


STORIES   THAT   END   iWELL 

dered,  at  this  minute,  why  she  should  wish  that  he 
had  kissed  the  hand  instead ;  an  elderly  woman  ought 
to  be  content  with  a  calm,  assured,  faithful  affection, 
and  let  beautiful  youngsters  have  the  frills.  That 
evening,  she  planned  a  dinner  carefully  to  his  liking, 
and  she  would  not  let  herself  be  disappointed  when 
he  brought  a  political  magnate,  who  talked  politics, 
from  the  terrapin  to  the  coffee.  She  smiled  again, 
as  she  thought  how  much  more  of  interest  she  would 
have  found  in  the  conversation,  to-day,  after  the 
club's  year  on  Our  Colonial  Policies.  This  last  an- 
niversary Darius  had  clean  forgotten.  In  fact,  he 
had  advised  her  to  go  to  the  Federation  meeting; 
saying,  lightly,  that  it  came  at  an  opportune  moment 
because  he  must  be  away  that  week,  himself.  "Mil- 
waukee is  a  pretty  city,"  he  ended  amiably,  "and 
there  will  be  lots  of  hen-functions  and  you'll  enjoy 
yourself;  but  what's  the  object  of  it  all,  your  Fed- 
eration?" 

"I  don't  know" — she  astonished  him  with  her 
frank  levity — "when  I  do,  I'll  tell  you." 

"Well,  don't  get  into  any  rows  you  can  help,"  said 
he  easily ;  "want  any  more  money  ?  Got  plenty  ?" 

"Plenty,  thank  you,"  said,  she,  "although  I  am 
212 


THE   OBJECT    OF   THE   FEDERATION 

going  to  be  rather  extravagant  and  get  some  very 
smart  toilets." 

He  looked  over  his  glasses  at  her ;  and  she  was  not 
able  to  decipher  his  smile.  Didn't  he  approve  of  her 
clothes  ?  She  sent  her  fine  eyes  into  the  mirror  of  her 
dressing-table,  after  he  had  gone,  and  studied  the 
picture  there  with  a  frown  and  a  smile,  at  last  with 
a  moisture  over  her  eyes. 

But,  although  he  said  nothing,  when  she  next  ex- 
amined her  bank-book  she  found  her  credit  larger. 
"Maybe  he  docs  like  my  spending  more  money  on 
my  gowns,"  she  thought. 

She  went  to  Milwaukee.  She  did  not  remind  him 
of  the  anniversary.  She  said  to  herself  that  she 
would  seriously  try  to  discover  the  object  of  the 
Federation ;  then  she  would  tell  Darius.  Her  daugh- 
ter-in-law accompanied  her,  and  her  daughter  was  to 
meet  her.  "Quite  a  family  party,"  said  her  son; 
"well,  I  hope  you  girls  will  have  a  good  lark !  And, 
I  say,  Hester,  find  out  what  it's  all  about — if  you 
can!" 

At  first,  Myrtle  Hardy  was  more  bewildered  than 
excited.  The  scene  was  unlike  anything  in  her  ex- 
perience. The  hotels  glittering  with  feminine  finery 
213 


STORIES   THAT    END    WELL 

and  humming  with  feminine  voices;  the  placards 
over  doorways  in  rotundas  or  corridors,  announcing 
headquarters;  the  vast  crooning  bulk  of  the  lake,  the 
iridescent  gleam  of  water  that  came  to  one  in 
glimpses  as  one  was  whirled  down  the  wide  and 
breeze-swept  avenues,  amid  a  dazzle  of  lovely  fab- 
rics and  smiling  faces,  blooming  like  flowers  in 
swiftly  passing  victorias  or  rattling  cabs,  or  rippling 
over  the  sidewalks  into  the  wide  vestibules  where 
Milwaukee  welcomed  her  guests ;  the  noisy  rush  of 
the  city ;  the  ceaseless  rattle  and  clang  of  the  electric- 
cars  which  were  like  an  orchestral  accompaniment 
to  the  magnetic  excitement  pulsing  under  the  deco- 
rous calm  of  the  meetings,  in  the  flower-decked 
theaters,  or  eddying  through  the  foyer;  these  at  first 
dazed  the  woman  unused  to  clubs.  But  only  for  a 
brief  time.  Presently,  she  began  to  be  consulted; 
her  advice  was  asked ;  she  made  a  speech  in  a  meet- 
ing of  the  state  delegation.  There  was,  in  the 
speech,  her  natural  clear  sense — which  goes  for 
something  always  and  everywhere — there  was,  also, 
the  mark  in  voice  and  speech  and  pose,  of  her  years' 
training  with  the  teachers.  "I  believe  you  could 
be  heard  all  right,  in  the  theater,"  said  the  president 
214 


THE   OBJECT   OF   THE   FEDERATION 

of  the  state  delegation,  afterward,  "will  you  make  a 
motion  or  two  for  us,  this  afternoon?"  She  made 
the  motions;  and,  strangely  enough,  she  wasn't  so 
frightened  as  she  had  been  in  the  state  delegation; 
in  fact,  she  proposed  a  simple  short  cut  through  an 
unnecessary  dilemma  with  not  much  feeling  beyond 
wonderment  that  so  many  clever  women  could  get 
themselves  into  such  a  tangle.  The  applause  and  de- 
light of  her  companions  of  the  delegation  touched 
her.  "I'm  in  it,  again,"  she  thought,  railing  at  her 
own  vanity,  but  curiously  pleased.  Now,  her 
thoughts  were  back,  groping  through  the  years  when 
she  was  not  "in  it."  Not  the  days  of  her  youth,  not 
at  all ;  she  had  been  the  leader  of  her  mates,  an  in- 
genious, tolerant,  easy-going  leader,  admired  and 
loved,  shining  among  them  by  right  of  two  years  in 
an  eastern  boarding-school  and  a  trip  to  Europe. 

Not  in  her  early  married  life,  either;  although,  at 
first,  Darius  was  poor  and  the  great  wagon  manu- 
factory was  but  a  daring  experiment.  In  those  days 
she  knew  all  her  husband's  hopes  and  plans  as  well 
as  his  troubles.  He  used  to  say,  often,  that  she  had 
a  good  business  head.  Those  days  they  lived  in  a 
little  brown  wooden  house  with  a  five- foot  piazza; 
215 


STORIES    THAT    END    WELL 

and  Darius  mowed  the  tiny  lawn  himself;  and  she 
put  up  her  own  preserves  and  made  all  the  children's 
clothes — pretty  clothes  they  were,  too;  she  was  a 
housewife  whose  praise  was  in  all  the  churches.  But 
it  does  not  follow  that  she  had  ceased  to  be  a  leader, 
far  from  it ;  she  was  the  president  of  the  "Ladies' 
Sewing  Society"  of  her  church;  and  of  the  first 
woman's  club,  classically  named  the  "Clionian."  She 
was  a  progressive  spirit ;  she  it  was  who  introduced 
the  regular  motion  into  the  business  meetings ;  be- 
fore her  reign  it  having  been  the  artless  custom  of 
the  societies  to  talk  until  the  discussion  either  lan- 
guished or  grew  too  violent,  when  some  promoter  of 
harmony  would  call  out,  "Let  us  put  it  to  vote," 
whereupon  there  would  be  a  few  timid  ayes  and  a 
self-respecting  silence  instead  of  no ;  and  the  measure 
would  be  adopted.  Pertaining  to  this  custom  was  an 
inevitable  sequel  of  plaintive  criticism  from  all  the 
modest  souls  who  "didn't  like  to  speak,"  but  who 
were  full  of  foreboding  wisdom.  Myrtle  Hardy  was 
one  of  the  few  who  could  speak;  and  she  was  con- 
sidered to  speak  very  much  to  the  point.  Those  days, 
she  was  keenly  interested  in  all  the  life  of  a  young, 
hopeful,  bustling  little  western  city.  She  belonged 
216 


THE   OBJECT    OF   THE   FEDERATION 

to  a  musical  society  and  would  rise  at  five  in  the 
morning  to  practice,  and  she  was  one  of  an  anxious 
band  of  women  who  had  bought  a  library  and  were 
running  an  amateur  entertainment  bureau  to  support 
it.  Then,  Darrie  was  in  home-made  knickerbockers  ; 
Myrtie  was  a  sweet,  little,  loving  hoyden  who  was 
her  mother's  despair  because  she  would  climb  trees 
in  her  white  frocks ;  Ralph  was  a  baby,  and  the  two 
little  girls  that  died  were  their  mother's  tiny  helpers, 
with  the  willingest  little  hands  and  feet.  Sitting 
there  in  the  crowded  and  noisy  theater,  a  quiver  ran 
over  the  mother's  face.  Her  friends  had  forgotten, 
the  brothers  and  sisters  had  forgotten,  even  Darius 
seemed  to  forget;  but,  day  and  night,  she  remem- 
bered the  eager  little  faces,  lighting  so  happily  at  her 
praise,  the  shining  little  heads  that  used  to>  nestle 
against  her  heart.  The  two  died  of  scarlet  fever  in 
one  terrible  week.  In  that  week,  the  first  gray 
threads  had  crept  into  Myrtle  Hardy's  beautiful 
brown  hair.  She  was  nurse  and  comforter  and 
helper,  then,  to  Darius.  She  felt  her  eyes  cloud  with 
the  vision  of  him,  as  he  flung  himself  on  the  babies' 
little  bed,  sobbing  in  the  terrible,  racking  passion  of 
a  man's  grief.  "Not  now,  dear,  not  now,  not  till  the 
217 


STORIES   THAT    END    WELL 

others  are  safe,"  she  had  whispered ;  "we  have  them 
still ;  they  need  us." 

She  wondered  was  it  after  the  babies  went  that  she 
began  to  drop  out  of  things.  Somehow  she  was  so 
busy  comforting  Darius  and  nursing  the  others  back 
to  health,  and  crowding  back  her  own  ceaseless  grief 
out  of  sight;  and  thinking  of  cheerful  things  to  say 
and  new  interests  for  the  others,  that  the  library 
passed  out  of  corporate  existence  and  into  endowed 
rest  with  hardly  a  thought  from  her.  Nearly  at  the 
same  time,  the  musical  society  perished  in  a  cata- 
clysm, due  to  the  sensitive  musical  temperament,  and 
the  literary  society  died  of  inanition,  after  browsing 
through  literature  from  Milton  to  Dante ;  and  after 
each  member  had  written  one  or  two  papers,  thus 
sating  the  natural  curiosity  of  the  other  members. 
Myrtle  did  not  lift  a  hand  to  save  either  of  the  so- 
cieties. She  heard  the  wrathful  accusations  of  the 
musical  warriors,  and  put  in  the  unappreciated  word 
for  peace,  but  did  not  resent  its  failure.  She  consoled 
the  literary  mourners  with  the  reflection  that  they 
could  read  up  about  things  in  the  magazines  or  the 
books  of  the  new  library;  and  masked  her  secret 
listlessness  with  perfunctory  regret.  Long  after,  she 
218 


THE   OBJECT   OF   THE   FEDERATION 

came  to  wonder  whether  it  was  not  she  who  went 
into  prison,  then;  rather  than  the  world  that  left 
her  on  one  side.  Did  she  not  gently  but  rigidly  ex- 
clude the  friends  who  would  have  called  upon  her 
and  shut  herself  apart  with  her  own?  Continually, 
she  used  to  pray  for  cheerfuless,  for  patience;  but 
it  never  occurred  to  her  to  pray  for  interest  When 
other  societies  were  formed,  she  did  not  care  to  join 
them;  she  followed  her  own  advice  and  read  apart 
by  herself.  By  and  by,  although  so  much  more  of  a 
personage,  she  was  no  longer  beset  with  invitations. 
The  younger  women  organized  a  new  club  with  new 
methods ;  and  Myrtle  Hardy  read  her  books,  peace- 
fully, on  her  wide  piazzas,  amid  her  plants  and  flow- 
ers. When  Myrtie  came  back  from  college,  Darius 
asked  her  wasn't  she  going  to  help  Myrtie  by  joining 
the  club  with  her  ? 

"Dear,  no,"  said  she,  blithely,  "they  are  all  so 
young." 

"Why  don't  you  get  up  a  club  of  your  own,  then, 
and  take  in  the  other  left  outs?"  said  he. 

"I  don't  fancy  women's  clubs  much;  you  know  I 
did  belong  to  them;  they  are  half-baked  things,  and 
they  take  their  own  improvement  witfc  such  deadly 
219 


STORIES    THAT    END    tWELL 

seriousness.  And  it  is  such  a  smattering  that  you 
get  in  them.  A  smattering  is  always  forgotten ;  un- 
less you  know  a  lot  about  a  thing  you  forget  it  all." 
"Oh,  well,  you  know  best  what  you  like,"  said 
Darius,  easily ;  "I  only  thought  you  seemed  a  little 
dull."  He  dropped  the  subject;  but  she  repeated  his 
words,  often  to  herself;  he  never  had  thought  her 
dull,  before.  She  noticed  that  Myrtie  did  not  talk 
of  her  club.  She  was  puzzled.  Outwardly,  Myrtie 
was  a  handsome  young  woman  with  a  highbred  re- 
pose of  manner  which  she  had  acquired  as  a  college 
editor  and  the  protector  of  new  girls ;  inwardly,  she 
was  still  shy,  desperately  in  dread  of  awkwardness, 
and  brimming  with  enthusiasms.  Not  until  she  was 
about  to  be  married  did  her  mother  find  a  trace  of 
her  little  girl  in  this  gently  haughty  young  creature. 
And,  then,  there  remained  only  Myrtie's  last  photo- 
graphs and  Myrtie's  empty  chamber,  and  the  weekly 
letters  for  her  mother's  hungry  heart.  "I  am  not 
sure  I  know  her,"  she  would  often  muse,  those  days, 
"I  am  only  sure  she  doesn't  know  me !" 

Myrtie  lived  in  Chicago;  she  had  married  very 
well  indeed ;  and  had  a  prosperous  husband  who  was 
a  graduate  of  Harvard  and  dallied  with  reform; 
220 


THE   OBJECT    OF   THE   FEDERATION 

and  there  were  two  sweet  little  children  who  called 
Mrs.  Hardy  "Granny";  and  Myrtie  always  con- 
sulted her  mother  when  they  were  ill ;  she  was  a  de- 
voted daughter.  "When  my  dear  mother  was  alive," 
said  Mrs.  Hardy,  smiling  rather  grimly,  "grannies 
were  not  very  nice  old  cronies  who  smoked  pipes  in 
the  chimney  corner;  and  'Grandma'  was  good 
enough  for  any  grandmother;  now,  'Grandma*  is 
provincial  and  /  am  a  granny,  myself.  It  is  a  little 
puzzling." 

The  children  were  all  out  of  the  house,  now. 
Ralph,  the  youngest,  was  at  college;  she  was  well 
acquainted  with  him ;  she  used  to  write  him  about 
the  books  she  read  and  he  wrote  her  about  the  boys 
and  football;  she  knew  a  great  deal  about  football. 
She  lived  in  a  stately  new  colonial  house  with  quaint 
little  window-panes  wherever  they  would  not  ob- 
struct the  view,  and  snowy  tiled  bath-rooms,  such  as 
no  colonial  ever  knew;  and  terraces  decked  with 
pink  and  blue  hydrangeas;  and  dazzling  window 
gardens.  Myrtie  had  been  as  kind  as  possible  about 
the  house ;  and  Myrtie's  taste  was  charming ;  it  had 
been  an  education  in  colonial  history  as  well  as  archi- 
tecture to  have  Myrtie  help  build  the  house ;  even  the 
221 


STORIES   THAT   END   .WELL 

architect  was  deferential  to  her.  Across  the  street 
v,  as  Darrie's  less  costly  but  no  less  correctly  charm- 
ing house.  Hester  had  done  Myrtie's  architectural 
bidding,  also.  Darrie  was  the  best  of  sons.  She  was 
proud  of  him;  and  his  father  depended  more  and 
more  on  him.  She  loved  his  wife;  and  his  children 
were  her  vivid  delight.  Darrie  used  to  fetch  her 
flowers  and  new  plants  for  the  window  gardens ;  and 
tell  her  about  the  children's  funny  sayings.  Darius, 
her  husband,  grew  kinder  and  more  generous  all  the 
time;  he  gave  her  a  check-book  of  her  own ;  she  told 
her  old  friends  that  she  had  the  best  husband  and 
children  in  the  world;  and  that  she  was  a  grateful 
woman ;  she  duly  remembered  her  abundant  mercies 
in  her  prayers;  and  yet — and  yet  she  began  to  feel 
herself  retired.  A  most  respectable  position,  that  of 
a  retired  officer;  but,  somehow,  generals  and  ad- 
mirals do  not  covet  it.  Nor  did  Myrtle  Hardy.  She 
had  been  in  the  center  of  her  own  stage ;  now  she 
felt  herself  most  gently,  most  civilly,  pushed  into 
the  wings.  Her  daughter-in-law,  with  all  her  ad- 
miration and  her  dutiful  respect,  had  interests  which 
she  never  discussed ;  had  a  point  of  view  and  ideals 
which  were  outside  her  comprehension.  She  felt 
222 


THE    OBJECT    OF    THE    FEDERATION 

fatigued  and  puzzled  when  she  heard  the  younger 
generation's  familiar  speech  with  itself.  "I  am  not 
in  it,"  she  said  to  herself.  Darius,  too,  no  longer 
consulted  her;  the  old  fashion  of  confidence  had 
:  somehow  slipped  away ;  he  had  not  very  much  to  say 
when  they  were  alone;  and  he  was  beginning  to  call 
her  "Mother."  Myrtle  Hardy  considered.  She 
thought  for  weeks  and  thought  hard.  She  sat  in  her 
sewing-room,  up-stairs,  where  were  the  only  two 
rocking-chairs  that  Myrtie's  impeccable  taste  had 
allowed  to  abide  in  the  house.  She  sat  first  in  one 
and  then  in  the  other  of  the  chairs,  her  needlework 
unheeded  in  her  lap;  and  watched  her  little  grandson 
and  his  sister  playing  while  the  nurse  made  an  inter- 
minable German  lace  on  the  back  porch;  and  just 
across  from  her  window,  Hester,  her  daughter-in- 
law,  sat  amid  a  heap  of  books,  reading  and  making 
notes.  "That  child  has  been  studying  for  three 
months,  every  spare  moment,  on  her  paper  about 
'Scientific  Plumbing  in  the  Modern  Mansion.' " 
Mrs.  Hardy  muttered,  with  a  frown,  "well,  I  hope 
she  will  know  something,  if  she  keeps  her  mind! 
That  was  not  the  way  we  prepared  club  papers  in 
my  day ;  we  decided  on  our  subjects  one  meeting  and 
223 


STORIES   THAT    END   WELL 

we  read  our  essays  on  them  the  next ;  and  two  weeks 
was  enough  for  us;  now,  they  spend  a  half  year 
making  a  programme  and  have  it  hanging  over  them 
a  year  in  advance."  She  watched  her  daughter-in- 
law,  smiling  grimly ;  then,  suddenly,  she  rose,  with 
the  motion  of  one  who  has  come  to  a  decision.  "At 
least  they  are  not  superficial,  nowadays,"  she  said, 
"and  perhaps  it  is  better  to  take  one's  self  too  seri- 
ously than  not  seriously  enough.  And  after  all, 
Hester  did  find  out  what  was  the  matter  with  the 
laundry  faucets." 

One  day  she  told  her  daughter-in-law  that  she 
wanted  to  join  a  class  in  parliamentary  law. 

"But  we  haven't  any,"  objected  Mrs.  Darius 
Hardy,  Jr.,  meekly. 

"Then  get  up  one,"  said  the  one  time  president  of 
clubs.  "Get  all  you  can  to  join  a  class,  send  for  a 
teacher,  and  I  will  make  up  the  deficit,  in  the  sub- 
scription list." 

A  parliamentary  teacher  of  renown  came.  She  was 
also  a  teacher  of  expression — that  was  her  poetical 
word.  Hester  caught  her  breath  the  first  time  her 
mother-in-law  rose  in  the  class  to  "speak  to  the 
motion."  She  embraced  her  with  beaming  eyes  and 
224 


THE   OBJECT   OF   THE   FEDERATION 

the  prettiest  rose  of  delight  on  her  cheeks.  "Oh, 
how  did  you  learn  it  ?"  she  sighed,  happily,  "you  are 
the  best  of  us  all !" 

"I  took  some  private  lessons  in  Chicago,"  said 
Mrs.  Hardy — her  quiet  manner  did  not  betray  an 
unexpected  thrill. 

"You're  beautiful!"  cried  Hester. 

After  that,  Hester  always  seconded  her  mother- 
in-law's  motions;  and  fought  in  the  mimic  debates 
as  valiantly  on  her  side  as  a  natural  reticence 
would  let  her.  It  was  odd  (to  Mrs.  Hardy)  what  a 
different  relation  grew  up  between  them;  a  sense  of 
comradeship  and  the  pleasures  of  partisanship, 
wherein  it  is  not  only  the  leader  who  exults  in  the 
winning  fray,  the  follower  has  a  simpler  and  a  no- 
bler joy.  The  first  natural  consequence  of  Hester's 
admiration  was  that  she  begged  her  mother-in-law 
to  join  her  club.  Before  the  end  of  the  year,  Mrs. 
Hardy  was  elected  president  of  the  club ;  before  the 
end  of  the  next  year,  she  was  burrowing  in  books 
and  magazines,  as  absorbed  as  Hester,  in  the  con- 
duct of  Great  Britain  to  her  colonies.  She  found 
herself  suddenly  interested  in  the  newspapers ;  Dar- 
225 


STORIES   THAT   END   .WELL 

rie  talked  politics  with  her;  and  they  were  no  longer 
unintelligible. 

"Whew,  isn't  mother  getting  cultivated !"  Darius 
whispered  to  his  boy ;  and  they  both  grinned. 

"She's  growing  handsomer,  too,"  said  Darius  the 
younger. 

"I  hope  she  won't  go  to  any  of  those  fakirs  in  the 
newspapers  who  paint  you  all  over,  so's  you  crack 
when  you  laugh,"  commented  Darius,  anxiously, 
"and,  say,  Darrie,  there's  a  way  they  have,  nowa- 
days, of  burning  off  your  skin  and  giving  you  a  new 
skin — they  call  it  being  'done  over1 ' ;  it  must  be  fright- 
ful torture — I'm  not  going  to  have  your  mother's 
face  sizzled  up,  that  fashion." 

"She  doesn't  need  it;  mother's  skin  is  lovely," 
said  the  loyal  son. 

"Her  not  needing  it  is  no  reason  why  she  won't 
want  it — being  a  woman — Darrie.  Your  mother  is 
the  most  sensible  woman  in  the  world,  Darrie ;  but 
she's  a  woman.  And  I'm  not  sure  whether  a  woman 
ought  to  monkey  with  her  age,  the  way  mother  is 
doing.  What  do  you  suppose  I  saw  with  my  own 
eyes,  yesterday?  There  was  mother,  swinging  her 
arms  over  her  head  and  bowing  like  3  heathen 
226 


THE    OBJECT    OF    THE    FEDERATION 

Chinee,  until  her  slender  fingers  touched  the  floor; 
and  then  she  went  to  kicking  over  the  chairs — high 
kicks!" 

"Oh,  that's  only  Delsarte— they  only  do  that  to 
limber  up  and  make  themselves  graceful.  Hetty  can 
kick  the  chandelier." 

Myrtle  caught  echoes  of  this  conversation;  and 
was  base  enough  to  listen  behind  her  sewing-room 
curtains,  giving  no  sign.  It  was  true  that  a  change 
had  come  over  her,  and  that  her  mirror  reflected 
smarter  toilets,  a  different  carriage,  and  a  fresher 
charm.  For  one  reason,  she  looked  younger  because 
she  was  much  more  cheerful.  "I  am  a  child  with  a 
new  toy,"  she  would  say  to  herself.  But  there  is  no 
question  that  she  found  a  pungent  enjoyment  in  her 
new  activity.  One  of  the  perpetual  wonders  of  life 
is  how  small  a  figure  the  stake  cuts  in  the  game. 
It  is  infinitely  more  exciting  to  make  money,  for  ex- 
ample, than  to  have  it.  To  keep  our  souls  in  repair 
they  need  exercise;  and  the  vicissitudes,  the  emo- 
tions, the  excitement  of  a  career,  happily  do  not  de- 
pend on  the  size  of  the  stage.  The  great  stake,  the 
large  stage,  count;  but  they  count  less  than  their 
claims.  What  comes  to  more  than  the  pomp  of  suc- 
227 


STORIES    THAT    END    WELL 

cess  (as  the  vulgar  name  an  intangible  thing)  is  the 
elation  of  using  all  one's  powers;  nor  is  there  any 
tawdry  applause  comparable  to  the  rich  and  fine  con- 
tent of  accomplishment.  But  often  Myrtle  caught 
Darius's  pondering  eyes  and  wondered  to  herself 
what  he  was  thinking.  Really,  Darius  was  experienc- 
ing the  rather  piquant  emotions  of  a  man  who  dis- 
covers an  entirely  new  creature  in  his  own  wife.  By 
a  natural  transition  his  thoughts  went  back  to  the 
days  when  he  was  courting  Myrtle  Danforth,  and 
"couldn't  make  her  out;"  by  an  equally  natural 
process  of  selection,  he  fumbled  through  dim  pas- 
sages in  his  soul,  striving  to  see  the  relation  be- 
tween this  assured  and  graceful  woman  of  affairs 
and  thei  joyous  young  beauty  that  he  had  won,  the 
high-hearted  comrade  of  his  poverty  and  struggles, 
the  tender  comforter  of  his  sorrows.  A  hundred 
little  trivial,  affecting  incidents  rose  out  of  the  hazy 
years  to  gripe  his  heart.  He  felt  a  novel  shyness, 
however;  and  the  only  token  of  his  feelings  (outside 
the  check-book)  was  a  habit  he  had  fallen  into  of 
watching  his  wife  when  she  was  not  looking. 

Of  course,  she  was  aware  of  it ;  she  was  thinking 
of  it  at  this  moment,  while  the  Massachusetts  wom- 
228 


THE    OBJECT    OF   THE    FEDERATION 

an  behind  her  unpacked  her  conscience  on  her  near- 
est Indiana  neighbor. 

"And  how  does  Indiana  stand?"  said  the  evan- 
gelist, finally. 

"Well,  if  you  ask  me"  said  the  Indianian,  wear- 
ily, "we  have  troubles  of  our  own ;  and  we  are  not 
thinking  much  about  it !" 

At  this,  her  companion  (also  from  Massachusetts, 
but  with  a  sense  of  humor),  giggled  and  essayed  to 
cover  her  indecorum  by  asking  Mrs.  Hardy  if  she 
had  attended  the  industrial  sessions.  "I  have  tried 
to  go  to  them,"  she  confessed,  later,  after  they  had 
become  confidential.  "My  husband  is  a  manufac- 
turer, and  I  was  anxious  to  see  whether  they  would 
try  to  get  light  on  the  questions  that  they  are  tack- 
ling, or  would  simply  form  an  opinion  beforehand 
and  talk  about  it." 

"Well,  how  did  they  strike  you  ?" 

"They  didn't  strike  me  at  all ;  I  went  to  two  of 
them ;  but  the  first  one,  two  southern  acquaintances 
of  mine  lured  me  out  into  a  committee-room,  to  tell 
me  the  dreadful  things  Massachusetts  was  going  to 
do  about  the  color  question — not  one  of  which  had 
entered  our  heads,  by  the  way — and  the  other  meet- 
229 


STORIES    THAT    END    WELL 

ing,  I  sat  back  in  the  hall  and  couldn't  hear  any- 
thing, and  a  Massachusetts  friend  came  in,  very 
calm  but  deeply  excited,  and  got  me  out  in  the  hall 
to  tell  me  the  plots  of  the  Georgia  delegation.  Be- 
tween them,  I  didn't  hear  a  word  of  the  industrial 
question.  I'm  told  Missouri  has  been  studying  pre- 
ventive legislation  in  regard  to  woman  and  child 
labor  for  the  last  year ;  what  did  they  decide  to  rec- 
ommend?" 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Hardy,  drily,  "you  see  they 
were  studying  for  a  year;  if  they  had  taken  the  sub- 
ject for  a  month  or  two,  no  doubt  they  would  have 
had  opinions ;  but  as  it  was,  they  didn't  recommend 
anything.  But  what  you  say  about  the  sessions  made 
me  think.  I  find  that  there  are  two  classes  of  dele- 
gates, those  who  are  interested  in  the  meetings  and 
those  who  simply  go  to  the  meetings  to  get  a  better 
chance  to  pull  wires.  It  makes  me  more  at  sea  than 
ever  about  the  object  of  the  federation.  What  do 
you  think  it  is?" 

The  Massachusetts  woman  meditated.   She  was  a 

handsome  woman,  a  woman  with  ancestors,  it  was 

evident,  for  the  blue  and  gold  of  the  Colonial  Dames 

badge,  and  the  enamel  star  and  scarlet  ribbon  of  the 

230 


THE    OBJECT    OF   THE    FEDERATION 

Order  of  Colonial  Governors  illuminated  the  white 
chiffon  of  her  bodice;  and  there  were  five  bars  on 
the  scarlet  ribbon.  "My  idea  of  the  object  is  simply 
that  it  is  a  clearing-house,"  said  she ;  "and  so  far  it 
is  democratic,  for  it  brings  us  all  together;  and  I," 
said  the  descendant  of  governors  and  warriors,  "I'm 
democratic.  Look  at  us.  It  is  not  only  that  we 
represent  so  many  different  classes,  we  represent  so 
many  sections  of  the  country.  In  fact,  about  this 
color  question,  I  feel  that  it  is  more  important  for 
the  north  and  the  south  to  get  acquainted  and 
friendly,  working  together,  than  it  is  for  us  to  give 
the  opportunities  of  the  federation  to  a  few  colored 
people." 

"I  don't  look  at  it  that  way,  it  is  a  question  of 
right  and  wrong" — thus  the  ardent  soul  from 
Massachusetts  unfurled  her  banner  to  the  breeze — 
"are  you  going  to  do  what  is  right  or  what  is  ex- 
pedient?" The  smouldering  fire  which  had  made 
the  deck  hot  walking  all  through  the  meetings, 
showed  signs  of  breaking  out  of  cover;  everybody 
in  hearing  craned  her  neck;  there  were  murmurs  of 
approval  and  polite  sniffings  of  dissent  to  the  right 
and  to  the  left.  The  Massachusetts  woman  said 
231 


STORIES   THAT   END   WELL 

"Life  is  a  compromise;"  and  shrugged  her  shoulders. 
Mrs.  Hardy  put  up  the  white  flag  in  a  mild  sentence  : 
"Mrs.  Lowe  is  calling  us  to  order,  I  think." 

The  convention  had  passed  safely  to  the  ballot. 
The  opposition  had  sprung  its  mines ;  and  the  regu- 
lars had  discharged  their  heavy  artillery  behind  the 
proper  parliamentary  subterfuges.  The  undecided 
voters  had,  as  usual,  asked  to  take  back  their  bal- 
lots, and  as  usual  had  been  refused.  The  excitement 
had  risen  until  it  showed  in  white  or  flushed  faces 
and  strained  voices,  in  clapping,  and  hisses ;  but  the 
chairman's  inscrutable  calm  never  changed,  and 
through  it  all  she  held  the  convention  perfectly  in 
hand. 

Two  men  had  safely  run  the  gauntlet  of  ticket 
takers,  and  were  seated  in  the  lower  gallery.  They 
were  a  middle-aged  man,  dark,  portly,  carefully 
dressed  in  silver-gray  tweeds,  with  a  silk  shirt;  and 
a  young  man,  dark,  slender,  in  a  lighter  suit,  with  a 
stiff  white  collar  on  his  pink  negligee  shirt.  There 
was  an  air  of  distinction  about  both  men;  they 
looked  to  be  men  of  importance  in  their  own  locality, 
men  accustomed  to  command  and  deference;  but 
232 


THE   OBJECT   OF   THE   FEDERATION 

nothing  of  gentler  modesty  and  meekness  than  their 
demeanor  can  be  imagined.  They  shrank  back  in 
their  seats  and  sat  close  to  each  other,  as  one  will 
observe  timid  children  sitting,  who  have  wandered 
into  a  strange  house. 

"You — you  don't  suppose  they  will  put  us  out? 
eh,  Darrie?"  said  the  elder,  in  a  low  voice,  "not 
now?" 

"Of  course  not,"  responded  Darrie,  with  simu- 
lated lightness;  "look  there  to  the  left,  there's  Myr- 
tie.  That  president  is  a  good  presiding  officer;  you 
would  not  guess  all  this  row  is  over  her,  she's  abso- 
lutely impartial — by  Jove !" 

"What's  the  matter?  Do  you  see  mother  any- 
where ?" 

"No,  sir;  did  you  catch  that,  the  secretary's  ex- 
planation of  the  parliamentary  question?  Pretty 
clear,  I  call  it;  but  they're  getting  in  all  their  points, 
I  observe,  working  questions  of  privilege  for  all  they 
are  worth." 

"Very  clever,  very  clever,"  assented  Darius; 
"there's  Hester,  mother  isn't  with  her;  you  don't 
suppose  mother  would  stay  away,  this  afternoon?" 

"Never;  this  is  the  election  afternoon." 
233 


STORIES  THAT   END   WELL 

"Myrtie  said  mother  was  very  much  admired  and 
sought  after,  lots  of  invitations;  maybe  she  has  gone 
out  to  some  tea — " 

'They  wouldn't  have  anything  this  afternoon; 
don't  you  see  how  keyed  up  they  all  are?" 

"I  thought  I  was  monstrous  clever  planning  all 
this,"  pursued  Darius,  with  a  knitted  brow;  "your 
mother  forgot  this  was  our  anniversary,  but  I  didn't ; 
I  have  her  present  in  my  pocket ;  and  the  dinner  or- 
dered; and  I  was  expecting  to  surprise  her;  but  if 
she  isn't  here — she  couldn't  have  gone  home?" 

"Of  course  not — there  she  is,  don't  you  see  her? 
looking  fresh  as  paint !" 

A  lady  had  risen,  her  voice,  mellow  and  clear, 
dove  through  the  sonorous  buzz  of  the  hall. 

"Why  it's  mother!"  cried  Darius,  "and  if  she  isn't 
taking  an  appeal  from  the  chair;  mother  has  her 
nerve  with  her,  to-day." 

Darrie  grinned;  but  as  he  watched  his  father's 
face  kindle,  his  own  changed;  he  laid  his  hand  on 
his  father's,  nodding,  softly:  "I  tell  you,  mother's 
great"  said  he. 

"That  little  dark-eyed  lady  is  speaking  on  moth- 
er's side" — Darius  was  leaning  forward  with  ex- 
234 


THE   OBJECT   OF   THE   FEDERATION 

cited  interest — "isn't  she  a  pretty  creature,  she's 
little — but,  oh  my!  How  clearly  she  puts  it;  these 
southerners  have  a  natural  gift  of  oratory.  Don't 
think  much  of  that  woman  who's  trying  to  call 
mother  down !" 

He  was  as  eager  as  a  boy,  the  man  whose  cool 
head  and  hard  sense  had  won  him  a  great  fortune ; 
his  eyes  glistened,  the  color  crept  into  his  cheek ;  and 
he  drew  a  long  sigh  when  the  appeal  was  withdrawn. 
"Very  pretty,  Darrie,"  he  said,  "appeal  with- 
drawn, but  they  have  got  in  their  work  on  the  vot- 
ers ;  chairman  had  to  decide  against  her  own  friends, 
and  did  it  like  a  Roman  soldier.  The  extraordinary 
thing  to  me,  Darrie,  is  how  well  they  are  all  keeping 
their  temper.  Darrie,  didn't  you  think  mother's 
voice  was  good  when  she  spoke ;  how'd  she  learn  to 
speak  so  well?" 

"Oh,  she  took  lessons,"  returned  Darrie,  easily; 
"Hester  got  her  into  them ;  Hester  and  mother  are 
great  pals." 

"I  know;  Hester's  a  remarkable  girl,  Darrie;  she 
has  always  appreciated  your  mother.    Begun  again, 
have  they?  Started  something  else  while  the  ballots 
are  counted.    Like  a  continuous  show,  isn't  it  ?" 
235 


STORIES   THAT    END   iWELL 

He  listened  with  a  slackened  zest  while  the  ques- 
tions of  reorganization  and  details  of  the  duties  of 
chairmen  pattered  through  the  hour,  the  rain  after 
the  thunder-storm.  Then,  unexpectedly,  Mrs. 
Hardy  made  her  little  speech.  It  was  an  excellent 
little  speech,  good-natured,  full  of  sense,  and  with 
a  dash  of  humor.  At  first,  she  was  a  little  nervous, 
but  she  was  too  interested  in  her  subject  to  be  nerv- 
ous more  than  an  instant.  Had  she  known  of  the 
presence  of  two  auditors  in  the  gallery,  perhaps  her 
composure  had  wavered.  There  could  be  no  doubt 
regarding  their  agitation.  They  turned  pale  and 
clutched  each  other;  then,  first  on  Darrie's,  next  on 
his  father's  features,  dawned  and  spread  a  light  of 
exceeding  confidence;  with  shameless  effrontery — 
considering  their  relationship — they  stimulated  the 
applause ;  they  beamed  over  the  hits ;  and  at  the  close 
they  were  radiant.  Without  a  word  Darius  held  out 
his  hand  to  his  son,  who  wrung  it.  Then,  they  both 
took  a  long,  long  breath  of  relief  and  satisfaction. 
Darius  was  the  first  to  speak:  "My  son,"  said  he, 
"I  have  known  your  mother  for  forty  years  and  have 
been  her  husband  for  thirty-three,  but  she  can  sur- 
prise me  still !" 

236 


THE   OBJECT   OF   THE   FEDERATION 

"Mother  certainly  is  great,"  assented  Darrie,  sol- 
emnly; he  added  his  own  little  feather  of  marital 
triumph :  "Hetty  always  told  me  so,"  said  he. 

"Look  at  those  women  all  around  her,"  said  Da- 
rius, "patting  her  on  the  shoulder  and  whispering; 
they  know.  Darrie,  I'll  bet  you  anything,  there  hasn't 
been  another  speech  in  this  convention  that  has  put 
things  as  clearly  as  mother's." 

Myrtle  started  when  she  saw  her  husband  and  son 
smiling  in  the  doorway.  Her  daughter-in-law  was 
on  one  side,  her  daughter  on  the  other,  half  a 
dozen  of  her  delegation  radiated  complacency  in  her 
wake.  "Hasn't  she  covered  us  with  glory?"  one  of 
the  followers  called,  gleefully  to  another.  And  a 
little  din  of  compliments  fell  upon  Darius'  ears.  It 
is  pleasant  to  reflect  that  all  over  the  hall  similar 
groups  were  exulting  unselfishly  over  their  own 
prowess  and  their  own  heroines.  Little  did  Darius 
Hardy  concern  himself  with  them.  He  took  his  wife 
under  his  arm  with  a  proud  and  blissful  smile.  He 
waved  a  direction  at  Darrie :  "You  take  the  girls, 
Darrie,  you'll  find  a  cab,  somewhere;  I  want  your 
mother  to  myself.  Now,  Myrtle,  if  sated  vanity  can 
237 


STORIES   THAT    END   .WELL 

demand  any  more,  I'll  give  it  to  you  in  the  car- 
riage!" 

A  few  minutes  later,  she  was  gazing,  through  a 
happy  mist,  at  the  gems  on  her  heart-shaped  locket, 
murmuring :  "And  I  thought  you  had  forgotten  the 
day.  And  you  planning  this  lovely,  lovely  surprise 
for  me.  Oh,  I  am  so  glad,  Dar,  I  didn't  know  you 
were  there,  I  couldn't  have  said  a  word!  Did  I — 
were  you — was  it  passable?" 

"You're  fishing!"  chuckled  he;  and  he  kissed  her 
hand.  But  he  whispered  in  her  ear ;  and  she  blushed 
like  a  young  girl. 

Presently  he  laughed.  "By  the  way,  Myrtle,  you 
haven't  told  me!  Have  you  discovered  what  is  the 
object  of  the  federation?" 

"Certainly,"  said  she,  "I  don't  know  what  it  is  for 
others,  but  in  my  case  it  is  to  help  me  find  myself — 
and  my  husband!" 


238 


THE  LITTLE  LONELY  GIRL 

THE  golf  links  were  picturesque;  spreading 
along  the  shore  or  climbing  through  the  heart 
of  the  island  set  in  the  great  river;  here  and  there  a 
vista  of  the  huge  bulk  of  the  arsenal-shops ;  walled 
over  the  river  by  the  hills  behind  opulent,  bustling 
little  cities,  the  fair  greens  jeweled  by  the  sun  and 
dappled  with  shadow  from  trees  older  than  the 
Louisiana  Purchase.  A  breeze  shifted  the  shadows. 
Willy  Butler  felt  its  touch  on  his  wet  forehead. 

He  half  turned  to  take  out  his  handkerchief.  In 
the  act  he  saw  her.  It  was  the  same  girl  who  had 
followed  the  course  yesterday.  She  was  alone,  just 
as  she  had  been  alone  yesterday. 

The  gallery  was  bobbing  like  the  crest  of  a  wave 
over  the  brow  of  the  hill ;  the  carriages  and  machines 
glittered  in  slow  pomp  after  the  rope,  while  the  fa- 
vorites and  their  caddies  marched  over  the  slope 
toward  the  bunkers.  But  Willy,  and  Dickson  had 
only  this  one  follower,  a  little  lonely  figure,  slim  and 
239 


STORIES   THAT   END   [WELL 

straight  and  nimble,  in  white  linen,  whose  brown 
arms  and  brown  face  against  her  dazzling  gown 
made  the  effect  of  a  Russian  eikon  minus  the  gold- 
incrusted  robe.  She  halted  when  Willy  halted.  With 
impersonal  interest  she  watched  Dickson  make  a 
strike.  At  the  clean,  beautiful  drive  she  nodded 
approval.  Then  her  black  brows  met  in  a  slightly 
worried  frown.  Willy,  club  in  hand,  was  aware  of 
the  frown.  He  was  aware — in  a  sort  of  subcon- 
scious way — that  she  wanted  him  to  play  well; 
and  he  was  acutely  aware  that  he  had  not  played 
well  this  afternoon.  Even  his  direction,  which  had 
always  been  his  best  ally,  had  not  kept  its  form. 
Twice  had  he  gone  into  the  rough,  losing  a  shot  each 
time,  despite  his  really  hair-raising  recoveries.  Now 
the  other  man  was  two  up,  with  only  four  more 
holes  to  play.  At  best  Willy  could  but  halve  this 
hole,  at  best,  with  a  perfect  approach  and  a  long 
putt.  "A  duffer  at  golf,  like  everything  else!"  ran 
his  own  bitter  comment  to  himself.  He  didn't  know 
why  he  looked  up;  swinging  his  club  for  a  trial 
stroke  on  a  leaf.  Look  he  did,  however,  to  catch 
the  dark  eyes  of  the  little  lonely  girl  intently  watch- 
ing him.  If  she  had  called  to  him  aloud  "Brace  up!" 
240 


THE   LITTLE   LONELY    GIRL 

he  couldn't  have  heard  the  words  more  distinctly. 
He  almost  thought  he  did  hear  them,  and  gave  the 
child  an  involuntary,  half-starved  smile. 

With  the  same  smile  on  his  lips  he  sent  a  fault- 
less approach  into  easy  putting  distance,  and  he  felt 
absurdly  pleased  because  she  clapped  her  hands. 
They  halved  the  hole.  Dickson,  the  Harvard  cham- 
pion, looked  bored  as  he  sank  on  the  bench  by  the 
red  water-cooler.  He  had  been  Willy's  classmate 
a  year  ago  at  college,  knowing  him  as  the  man  who 
makes  all  the  best  societies  and  "leads  the  life"  may 
know  the  recluse  who  makes  none ;  he  was  conscious 
of  a  certain  irritation  peppering  his  cool  superiority. 
To  think  of  the  millions  that  shuffling,  cowed-look- 
ing,  insignificant  chap  would  have,  while  he,  Dick- 
son,  had  to  slave  on  a  salary.  A  duffer  who  couldn't 
even  win  a  golf  game  that  belonged  to  him,  because 
he  was  rattled !  Dickson  felt  that  the  ways  of  Fate 
were  scandalous. 

Willy  had  limped  up.  The  day  before  he  had  blis- 
tered his  heel  somehow,  and  every  step  cost  a  pang. 
He  eased  the  lame  foot  by  resting  his  weight  on  the 
other.  His  gray-blue  eyes,  which  only  his  dead 
mother  had  ever  found  handsome,  scanned  with  a 
241 


STORIES   THAT   END   WELL 

certain  wistfulness  Dickson's  graceful,  athletic  fig- 
ure and  clean,  dark  profile.  His  own  profile  was  ir- 
regular and  his  figure  was  awkward,  with  arms  too 
long  and  shoulders  too  square  for  harmony;  he 
stooped  in  an  ungainly  fashion,  as  if  he  had  the 
habit  of  musing  as  he  walked;  his  plain  face  was 
deeply  freckled.  Yet  as  there  was  a  suggestion  of 
strength  in  the  figure,  so  there  was  the  same  sug- 
gestion in  the  young  mouth  and  chin,  and  something 
clear  and  strangely  innocent,  for  a  young  man,  looked 
out  of  his  eyes.  As  he  stood,  every  muscle  seemed 
to  sag;  he  appeared  utterly  spent;  but  the  instant 
Dickson  had  driven  he  stepped  alertly  into  his  place 
and  sent  a  drive  like  a  bird  sailing  far  beyond  Dick- 
son's  dot  of  white  on  the  green.  Somehow  a  new 
uplift  of  energy  and  hope  had  come  to  him;  bless 
that  kid,  he  would  show  her  that  he  could  still  do 
something  with  the  sticks!  He  heard  her  whispered, 
unconscious  "Beauty!"  This  time  he  kept  his  head 
straight,  but  when  the  hole  was  won,  he  met  her 
smile  frankly  with  another.  The  next  hole  was  easy. 
He  had  steadied;  he  had  his  nerve  back;  every 
calculation  worked;  and  when  Dickson  stymied, 
it  was  a  simple  trick  (the  like  of  which  he  had 
242 


THE   LITTLE   LONELY   GIRL 

practiced  often)'  to  hop  over  the  ball  and  roll 
into  the  hole,  to  the  artless  joy  of  his  caddy.  "You're 
going  to  be  the  champeen,"  this  worthy  told  Willy 
when  they  trudged  on;  "guess  that  young  lady's  a 
mascot." 

"I  guess  she  is,"  said  Willy.  He  was  sure  of  it 
when  at  the  home  hole,  guarded  by  a  high  hedge, 
Dickson's  ball  was  sliced  into  the  stubborn  net  of 
osage-orange  roots.  When  his  own  ball  sailed 
cleanly  over  the  wall  he  made  an  excuse  of  tying 
his  shoe  in  order  to  get  another  view  of  "that  kid's" 
brilliant  smile.  The  girl  herself  went  on  to  the  bench 
in  sight  of  the  blackboard.  Here  she  found  herself 
beside  an  elderly  man  with  a  great  head  of  thick 
gray  hair.  He  was  clapping  so  vigorously  that  she 
took  him  to  be  Willy's  father,  and  sent  him  a  glance 
of  sympathy.  "You  been  all  'round  with  him?"  said 
he.  "What  sort  of  a  game  is  he  playing?" 

"Pretty  bad  until  the  fifteenth,  and  then  a  won- 
der," she  returned  calmly. 

"Rattled!"  he  snorted  in  disgust,  as  he  chewed 
his  cigar  out  of  shape.  "First  match  game.  How 
are  the  others?  What's  his  chance?" 

"He  can  beat  them  all  if  he  will  only  think  so," 
243 


STORIES    THAT    END    WELL 

she  returned  in  the  same  even  tone.  Her  voice  was 
fuller,  with  a  different  and  more  melodious  into- 
nation than  those  about  him;  he  looked  up  at  her 
quickly,  as  if  from  a  passing  sense  of  the  difference. 

"Yes,  he's  rattled!"  grunted  the  elderly  gentle- 
man. "Gone  stale,  practicing  every  minute.  Too 
anxious.  Wants  to  please  his  father  by  getting  a  lit- 
tle silverware." 

"Aren't  you  his  father?" 

"Me?  No.  His  father  could  buy  me  up  out  of  his 
pocket-money.  His  father  is  Hiram  G.  Butler.  I'm 
only  his  boss.  He's  learning  the  steel  business  with 
me.  I  wish  I  was  his  father;  he's  a  genius  in  his 
way." 

"I  suppose  his  father  is  awfully  proud  of  him." 

"Proud  nothing!"  exploded  the  stout  gentleman. 
"His  father  has  bought  and  sold  and  fought  inven- 
tors so  long  that  when  he  discovered  that  his  son 
was  hatching  formulas  for  open-hearth  steel  he  was 
disgusted.  Then  at  college  Will  took  honors  in 
chemistry  and  was  a  grind;  and  when  his  father 
wanted  to  load  him  with  money,  and  told  him  to  go 
ahead  and  make  all  the  societies,  he  sent  the  money 
back  and  said  he  didn't  know  any  boys  in  societies; 
244 


THE   LITTLE   LONELY   GIRL 

the  boys  who  ran  after  him  were  only  after  his 
money  and  the  other  boys  didn't  want  him.  The  trou- 
ble simply  is  he  is  too  all-fired  shy  and  modest.  Takes 
has  father's  word  he  is  a  failure  because  he  couldn't 
make  their  fool  societies.  How  should  a  fellow  who 
has  spent  his  life  in  English  schools  and  traveling 
about  with  a  tutor,  and  then  is  dumped  into  Har- 
vard, be  expected  to  make  a  splash  among  those 
snippy  young  swells?  Harvard's  no  violet  cold- 
frame  !  The  other  boys  did,  but  they  were  chips  of 
the  old  block,  hard  as  nails  and  hustlers  from  'way 
back.  And  since  his  mother  died  this  poor  chap  has 
had  nobody  to  chirk  him  up.  Father  didn't  mind 
until  the  other  boys  died.  All  three  in  one  year; 
pretty  tough  on  their  father.  Pretty  tough.  Ever 
lose — ur-r! — any  one  in  your  family?  Then  you 
know.  Now  Willy's  the  only  child,  and  his  father 
wants  to  make  him  over  in  his  brothers'  image. 
Wants  to  give  him  a  wife  to  help!  And  Willy  so 
scared  of  a  petticoat  he  walked  two  hours  up  and 
down  before  the  Somerset  Hotel  at  his  first  college 
dance  trying  to  screw  up  courage  to  go  in — and 
couldn't  Hiram  never  will  get  over  that.  But 
Willy,  though  he  won't  marry  to  please  his  father, 
245 


STORIES   THAT   END   WELL 

is  fond  of  the  old  dictator  just  the  same.  And  mighty 
proud.  That's  why  he  has  worked  so  at  golf.  Try- 
ing to  show  he  can  do  some  things  like  other  boys, 
you  see.  Well,  I  see  that  Harvard  dude  has  got  his 
ball  on  the  green  at  last.  Now  it's  up  to  Willy— 
Didn't  I  tell  you?  In  all  right!  Shall—  Oh!"  It 
was  a  singularly  small,  soft  "Oh!"  which  the  elderly 
man  uttered,  and  it  slipped  out  of  his  rugged  lips 
when  he  caught  the  shy  flash  from  Willy's  eyes  at 
the  girl.  He  studied  her  an  infinitesimal  space  be- 
fore he  spoke,  and  he  turned  a  chuckle  into  a  cough 
as  he  said,  "Aren't  you  Lady  Jean  Bruce-Hadden 
and  aren't  you  visiting  the  Brookes?" 

She  said  that  she  was,  rather  indifferently,  her 
gaze  still  following  Willy,  who  was  accepting  Dick- 
son's  congratulations  less  awkwardly  than  was  his 
wont. 

"I  guess  Major  Brooke  has  told  you  about  me, 
Jabez  Rivers — " 

But  ere  he  could  finish  the  name,  she  had  held  out 
her  hand  with  a  kindling  face,  crying,  "Oh,  indeed, 
yes.  I'm  ever  so  glad  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Rivers." 

After  this  it  was  only  natural  to  present  Willy; 
but  it  was  a  bit  of  a  surprise  to  have  Willy,  when 
246 


THE   LITTLE   LONELY   GIRL 

presented,  say,  "This  is  my  mascot,  sir.   I  lost  the 
game  and  she  made  me  win  it." 

Willy  was  astonished  at  his  own  fluency ;  but  then 
he  had  thought  Lady  Jean  a  very  young  girl,  not 
quite  the  "kid"  that  he  had  styled  her,  but  still 
hardly  a  young  lady.  Then,  anyhow,  she  was  differ- 
ent. Oh,  very  different! 

His  friend  was  eying  him  critically,  with  queer 
little  grunts,  according  to  his  fashion.  "You're  not 
fit  to  walk,"  he  grumbled.  "Why  will  young  folks 
wear  shoes  that  don't  fit !  Say,  you  take  Lady  Jean 
home  while  I  go  over  to  the  club-house  with  the 
major.  And  keep  the  car  if  you  don't  find  me.  I'll 
go  back  with  Standish.  And — I  don't  know  but  you 
better  take  her  'round  the  head  of  the  island  and 
show  her  that  motor  mowing-machine — lawn- 
mower,  you  know ;  I  want  her  to  see  it." 

He  grinned  as  the  young  people  obeyed  him  with 
grateful  docility,  speeding  away  in  his  electric  run- 
about; and  bestowed  a  look  of  orphic  sagacity  upon 
the  officer  in  white  undress  uniform  who  had  joined 
him.  The  officer  was  younger  than  Rivers,  although 
not  young. 

"That  is  one  of  the  very  finest  little  ladies  in  the 
world,"  he  remarked. 

247 


STORIES   THAT    END   WELL 

is  fond  of  the  old  dictator  just  the  same.  And  mighty 
proud.  That's  why  he  has  worked  so  at  golf.  Try- 
ing to  show  he  can  do  some  things  like  other  boys, 
you  see.  Well,  I  see  that  Harvard  dude  has  got  his 
ball  on  the  green  at  last.  Now  it's  up  to  Willy— 
Didn't  I  tell  you?  In  all  right!  Shall—  Oh!"  It 
was  a  singularly  small,  soft  "Oh !"  which  the  elderly 
man  uttered,  and  it  slipped  out  of  his  rugged  lips 
when  he  caught  the  shy  flash  from  Willy's  eyes  at 
the  girl.  He  studied  her  an  infinitesimal  space  be- 
fore he  spoke,  and  he  turned  a  chuckle  into  a  cough 
as  he  said,  "Aren't  you  Lady  Jean  Bruce-Hadden 
and  aren't  you  visiting  the  Brookes?" 

She  said  that  she  was,  rather  indifferently,  her 
gaze  still  following  Willy,  who  was  accepting  Dick- 
son's  congratulations  less  awkwardly  than  was  his 
wont. 

"I  guess  Major  Brooke  has  told  you  about  me, 
Jabez  Rivers — " 

But  ere  he  could  finish  the  name,  she  had  held  out 
her  hand  with  a  kindling  face,  crying,  "Oh,  indeed, 
yes.  I'm  ever  so  glad  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Rivers." 

After  this  it  was  only  natural  to  present  Willy ; 
but  it  was  a  bit  of  a  surprise  to  have  Willy,  when 
246 


THE   LITTLE   LONELY   GIRL 

presented,  say,  "This  is  my  mascot,  sir.   I  lost  the 
game  and  she  made  me  win  it." 

Willy  was  astonished  at  his  own  fluency ;  but  then 
he  had  thought  Lady  Jean  a  very  young  girl,  not 
quite  the  "kid"  that  he  had  styled  her,  but  still 
hardly  a  young  lady.  Then,  anyhow,  she  was  differ- 
ent. Oh,  very  different! 

His  friend  was  eying  him  critically,  with  queer 
little  grunts,  according  to  his  fashion.  "You're  not 
fit  to  walk,"  he  grumbled.  "Why  will  young  folks 
wear  shoes  that  don't  fit !  Say,  you  take  Lady  Jean 
home  while  I  go  over  to  the  club-house  with  the 
major.  And  keep  the  car  if  you  don't  find  me.  I'll 
go  back  with  Standish.  And — I  don't  know  but  you 
better  take  her  'round  the  head  of  the  island  and 
show  her  that  motor  mowing-machine — lawn- 
mower,  you  know ;  I  want  her  to  see  it." 

He  grinned  as  the  young  people  obeyed  him  with 
grateful  docility,  speeding  away  in  his  electric  run- 
about ;  and  bestowed  a  look  of  orphic  sagacity  upon 
the  officer  in  white  undress  uniform  who  had  joined 
him.  The  officer  was  younger  than  Rivers,  although 
not  young. 

"That  is  one  of  the  very  finest  little  ladies  in  the 
world,"  he  remarked. 

247 


STORIES    THAT    END   iWELL 

"Why  not  beat  Cleaves  and  get  the  big  cup?" 
said  she  in  the  same  cool  tone.  "You  can  if  you 
will.  You  know  perfectly  well  you  can.  Promise 
me  you  will." 

"Here  and  now  ?"  said  Willy,  smiling  faintly,  but 
the  light  in  her  eyes  struck  a  glint  in  his  own. 
"Done,"  he  added,  holding  out  his  hand.  Her  clasp 
was  cool  and  soft,  but  as  firm  and  frank  as  a  boy's. 

"And  now,"  said  she,  "where's  your  lawn- 
mower?" 

They  had  reached  the  head  of  the  island,  where 
there  was  a  beautifully  shaven  sweep  of  lawn,  but 
no  vestige  of  mower;  Willy's  pulses  beat  a  thought 
faster,  and  he  felt  himself  a  master  of  stratagem 
when  he  suggested  their  searching  for  it  in  an  im- 
possible locality  at  the  farther  end  if  the  island. 
He  found  that  she  could  talk  as  well  about  other 
things  as  golf.  There  was  no  froth  in  her  talk, 
but  she  was  very  witty;  Willy,  who  passed  for  an 
abnormally  serious  young  fellow,  laughed  several 
times.  He  confessed  to  her  that  it  was  more  like 
talking  to  a  boy  than  to  a  girl  to  talk  to  her.  "I've 
always  wanted  to  be  a  boy,"  she  laughed.  "You 
can  play  I  am  one,  if  you  like." 


THE   LITTLE   LONELY    GIRL 

"But  I'm  afraid  you  would  miss  the  pretty 
speeches,  and  all  that." 

"I  never  had  any,"  she  answered,  with  her  flash- 
ing smile.  "Maybe  when  I'm  presented  I  shall  have 
if  we  have  enough  money  next  year  to  have  me 
come  out.  But  I  don't  believe  I  shall.  If  you  had 
four  sisters  all  raving  beauties  and  tremendously 
fetching,  and  you  couldn't  even  sing  a  song,  do 
nothing  but  ride  and  play  tennis — well,  you 
wouldn't  expect  pretty  speeches !" 

"Why  not?    You  are  pretty,  too.     You — 

She  stopped  him  with  a  raised  finger  and  a  shrug 
of  her  shoulders.  He  wondered  why  he  had  never 
noticed  before  what  lovely  lines  pertain  to  girls' 
shoulders  and  how  daintily  their  little  heads  are  set 
on  their  smooth  olive  throats.  "Plain  truth,  you 
know,"  said  she ;  "we're  playing  being  two  boys." 

To  save  the  situation  he  went  on  precipitately,  "I 
dare  say  I  know,  though.  I  never  was  lucky 
enough  to  have  a  sister,  but  as  I  had  three  brothers 
who  did  everything  I  can't  do,  I  know  how  it  feels 
to — to  be  out  of  it." 

"But  you  understand  my  sisters  are  splendid  and 
no  end  nice  to  me." 

251 


STORIES    THAT    END    WELL 

"So  were  my  brothers,"  said  Willy  loyally. 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  quick  sympathy.  "I 
know,"  she  murmured.  "Mr.  Rivers  told  me.  And 
all  in  one  year.  It  must  have  been  dreadful." 

"Yes,  it  was.  But  it  was  worse  when  my  mother 
died." 

"Oh,  yes.  I  was  sixteen  when  my  mother  died. 
And  I  miss  her  so  now.  Don't  you?" 

"Yes.    I  was  fifteen." 

They  were  both  silent.  The  weight  of  their  pit- 
eous memories  was  on  both  young  hearts,  and  yet 
in  each  was  a  sense  of  companionship,  of  the  sym- 
pathy of  a  common  pain.  The  tears  gathered 
slowly  in  the  girl's  eyes;  she  put  her  hand  up  her 
sleeve,  but  withdrew  it  empty,  and  the  young  man, 
taking  out  his  own  handkerchief,  which  had  surely 
seen  hard  usage,  looked  disconsolately  on  it  before 
tendering  the  freshest  corner.  "It's  pretty  mussy, 
but  I  lost  the  others,"  he  apologized. 

"And  you  have  pockets,  too!  I  lose  handker- 
chiefs to  an  appalling  extent." 

"So  do  I."  It  was  wonderful  how  many  things 
they  had  in  common — thoughts,  opinions,  most  de- 
lightfully human  of  all,  faults.  He  felt  emboldened 
252 


THE   LITTLE   LONELY    GIRL 

to  say  that  it  must  be  a  great  comfort  to  have  a 
sister;  he  had  always  wanted  one. 

"They're  a  good  deal  of  a  nuisance,  most  boys 
think,"  said  she,  "but  I  don't  know  why.  I  know 
I  shouldn't  have  been  a  nuisance  to  my  brothers  and 
I  should  rather  like  to  have  had  one.  We  might 
have  been  pals." 

His  eyes  sparkled;  he  felt  that  he  was  about  to 
make  a  proposal  as  daring  as  it  was  original ;  but  he 
made  it,  clutching  the  lever  under  his  hand  more 
firmly  in  his  agitation,  yet  not  hesitating.  "If  we 
are  going  to  play  things,  why  not  play  you  are  my 
sister?  It  would  be  easier  than  being  two  boys. 
You  see  I  should  all  the  time  be  afraid  of  forget- 
ting somehow  and  saying  something  unbecoming> 
or  too  rough,  if  we  played  you  were  a  boy." 

She  had  more  sense  of  humor  than  he,  although 
she  was  scarcely  less  innocent ;  she  laughed,  saying, 
"Most  boys  are  rough  enough  to  their  sisters.  Be- 
sides, I  don't  know  you  well  enough." 

"You  know  me  better  than  any  one  in  the  world 

does,"  he  answered  gravely.    Their  young  eyes  met 

and  darted  away.    He  thought  how  lovely  her  eyes 

were.     Not  so  much  in  color  or  form,  perhaps,  but 

253 


STORIES   THAT    END   WELL 

in  expression.  He  wished  that  he  could  see  them 
that  way  again.  But  she  had  turned  away.  He 
was  worried  lest  he  might  unwittingly  have  of- 
fended her.  He  knew  (for  his  French  tutor  had 
told  him)  how  easy  it  is  for  a  man  to  blunder 
clumsily  into  a  woman's  fine  reserves  and  sensitive 
modesty;  it  was  a  great  relief  to  have  her  turn 
swiftly  toward  him  again  and  smile  as  she  said, 
"But  you  don't  know  me!" 

"Maybe  not;  I'm  asking  you  to  give  me  the 
chance." 

"Oh!    Is  that  why?    Just  to  amuse  you." 

"You  know  better,"  said  he,  "for  at  least  you 
know  me!' 

"That  was  disagreeable  of  me,"  she  admitted 
penitently.  "I  do  know  better.  Please  forgive 
me!" 

"Then  you  will  play  it?"  he  said  eagerly.  "You 
know  I  did  what  you  wanted.  I  promised  to  win 
the  cup." 

His  first  gleam  of  masterful  daring  did  not  dis- 
please the  girl;  possibly,  it  obscurely  gratified  her. 
"But  you  must  be  good  and  win,"  she  said,  conced- 
ing the  point  in  the  immemorial  feminine  fashioa 
254 


THE    LITTLE   LONELY    GIRL 

which  would  always  march  out  of  a  surrendered 
keep  with  flags  flying. 

"I  will  be  good  and  win,"  repeated  Willy  obedi- 
ently. 

There  fell  a  little  silence,  during  which  they  had 
glimpses  of  soft  green  woods,  of  distant  harvest- 
fields  and  of  the  shimmer  of  sunlit  waves.  Vagrant 
odors  of  new-mown  hay  were  wafted  to  them  when 
the  breeze  stirred.  An  oriole's  note  rose  out  of  the 
dim  forest  paths,  poignantly  sweet.  Presently  the  lad 
spoke,  not  so  much  frightened  at  his  own  audacity 
as  amazed  at  his  lack  of  fear.  "Since  you  are  play- 
ing my  sister,  do  you  mind  telling  me  your  name? 
Did  he  say  Buchanan?" 

"No;  Bruce-Hadden." 

His  face  lighted  as  he  exclaimed  boyishly,  "I  knew 
I  had  known  you !  And  I  have — at  least,  I've  seen 
your  picture.  You  are  Oswald  Graham's  cousin 
Jean." 

"Of  course;  and  you — you  are  his  Yankee  friend 
at  Eton,  the  one  who  fought  him  because  he  said 
things  about  America !" 

"And  jolly  well  licked  I  was,  too,"  said  Willy 
gaily.  "I  didn't  even  know  how  to  put  up  my  hands ; 
255 


STORIES   THAT    END    WELL 

he  made  a  gorgeous  mess  of  me.  And  then  he  hunted 
me  up  and  took  it  all  back.  Of  course  we  were 
chums  after  that.  I  was  going  to  visit  him  in  the 
holidays,  but — 

"But  he  was  drowned,  trying  to  save  a  child." 

"He  did  save  her.  He  always  did  what  he  set  out 
to  do.  And  if  I  had  only  been  there — " 

"I  understand.  He  said  you  could  swim  like  a 
duck." 

"It's  the  only  sport  I'm  not  a  muff  at,"  said  Willy 
dismally.  "It's  just  my  long  arms.  But  he,  he  could 
do  anything.  I  don't  suppose  I'll  ever  stop  missing 
him.  He  was  the  only  boy  friend  I  ever  had." 

"But  you  have  men  friends  now,"  she  said  gently. 

"Yes."  He  sat  up  more  erect  in  his  seat.  "You 
saw  Mr.  Rivers.  He's  the  best  ever." 

"I've  heard  about  how  good  he  is  and  how  gruff. 
That's  the  kind  I  like;  no  nonsense  about  them.  I 
hate  sissy  men,  don't  you?" 

Willy  assented,  but  without  animation;  he  was 
diffidently  searching  his  inner  consciousness  as  to 
whether  he  himself  had  not  been  accused  of  being 
a  sissy.  "Sometimes  a  fellow  seems  a  sissy  when 
he  isn't,"  he  offered. 

256 


THE   LITTLE   LONELY    GIRL 

"Oh,  often"  she  agreed  heartily;  "but  the  man 
they  want  Moira  to  marry  is  a  genuine  muff,  a  hor- 
rid, languid-affected  New  Yorker  who  talks  like  a 
guardsman  and  makes  fun  of  his  own  country. 
Moira  can't  endure  him;  but  he  offers  to  settle  half 
a  million  on  her,  and  we  let  Effie  marry  a  captain  of 
the  line  who  had  only  a  thousand  a  year — " 

"That  was  you,"  interrupted  Willy  fervently. 
"You  did  that.  Oswald  told  me — " 

"No,  it  was  dad ;  he  couldn't  bear  to  have  Effie  so 
unhappy  when  I  told  him  how  she  might  go  into  a 
decline,  she  felt  so  wretched.  But  you  see,  having 
let  Effie  do  that  and  helping  her  out,  we  couldn't 
afford  any  more  detrimentals,  although  Jimmy's  got 
his  colonelcy  and  the  cross  and  they  are  ever  so 
happy.  But  we  can't  afford  another  love  match.  The 
bishop  is  dead  and  Ellen  hasn't  very  much;  and 
Lord  Fairley  has  a  big  family;  he  was  a  widower 
with  five  when  Ellen  married  him,  and  they  have 
two ;  and  we  are  so  deadly  poor.  It  is  really  neces- 
sary, but  it's  awful.  And  I  am  sure  she  cares  a  lot 
for  Reggy  Sackville,  a  kind  of  cousin  of  ours  who 
is  a  barrister,  and  she  is  sure  he  will  be  a  judge,  he 
is  so  clever;  but  he  couldn't  support  a  wife  for  years 
257 


STORIES    THAT    END   WELL 

and  years.  Don't  you  think  it's  really  and  truly 
awful  to  have  to  marry  anybody?" 

"Awful — intolerable,"  agreed  Willy.  "I  simply 
will  not." 

"And  your  father  wants  you — "  She  looked  so 
sympathetic  that  Willy  broke  right  in : 

"Yes.  I  never  seem  able  to  do  anything  my  father 
wants.  I  can't  manage  men  and  make  friends  and 
run  the  business  as  my  brothers  did.  Now  he  wants 
me  to  marry  a  girl  he  has  picked  out  for  me ;  and 
I've  got  to  disappoint  him  again.  I  wrote  him  I'd 
try  to  meet  his  wishes  every  other  way — I'd  accept 
dinner  invitations;  I'd  learn  the  steel  business;  I 
could  ride  and  run  an  automobile,  and  I  had  been 
up  in  an  airship,  and  I'd  try  to  win  a  golf  cup;  and 
I'm  taking  bridge  lessons,  but — the  hand  of  Douglas 
was  his  own,  you  know." 

"I  think  that's  splendid !"  cried  the  girl  heartily. 
"7  don't  want  to ;  but  maybe  I  shall  have  to,  to  save 
Moira." 

"Don't  you  do  it!"  he  exclaimed.  "It  makes  me 
sick  to  think  of  their  trying  to  force  you  into  such  a 
thing."  He  did  look  moved. 

"Don't  get  into  such  a  wax.  They  can't  force  me 
258 


THE   LITTLE   LONELY    GIRL 

— do  I  look  like  a  person  to  be  forced? — and  poor 
old  daddy  of  all  people  in  the  world !  If  you  just 
knew  him ;  we're  the  greatest  pals  in  the  world.  But 
there's  Moira.  If  I  were  to  marry  some  one  with  a 
lot  of  money,  she  could  marry  poor  Reggy;  and 
Moira  couldn't  stand  being  unhappy  near  so  well 
as  I  can." 

"Who's  the  man?"  growled  Willy  in  a  tone  of 
mingled  gloom  and  fury. 

"I  don't  know  his  name,"  replied  the  girl  sadly. 
"It  was  like  this :  Dad  met  his  father,  and  they  be- 
came very  chummy,  and  they  got  to  talking.  He 
talked  about  his  son,  who  is  a  'nice  fellow'  with  ele- 
gant tastes  and  doesn't  like  business.  Oh,  I  know, 
a  perfectly  odious  person." 

"Odious,"  Willy  agreed  morosely;  "a  downright 
sissy!  You'd  be  watched!" 

"Yes,"  sighed  Lady  Jean;  "but  Moira  would  be 
wretcheder  because  she  would  always  be  thinking  of 
Reggy.  And  besides" — she  grew  more  cheerful — 
"men  never  fancy  me ;  no  doubt  he'll  think  I'm  too 
ugly  and  dowdy,  and  I'm  so  shy  I  shall  be  hideously 
awkward." 

"You're  nothing  of  the  kind!"  Willy  interrupted; 
259 


STORIES    THAT    END    WELL 

"it — it's  the  most  abominable  cold-blooded  bargain- 
and-sale  business !  And  your  father  told  you — " 

"Oh,  no,  he  didn't  tell  me.  It  was  Ellen.  She  was 
so  pleased;  she  never  had  any  hopes  of  me,  don't 
you  know ;  and  now  she  says  they  won't  need  to  sac- 
rifice Moira.  But  if  the  young  man  doesn't  want 
me,  /  shan't  be  to  blame.  Now  tell  me  about  your 
girl!" 

"There's  nothing  to  tell.  I  never  saw  her.  I  don't 
know  her  name,  even.  Only  she's  got  a  title ;  and  she 
is  very  brilliant  and  charming  and  modest,  and  I'll 
be  lucky.  It's  another  case  of  parents  butting  in.  All 
he  wants,  he  says,  is  for  me  to  see  her;  I  told  him 
I  should  run  away  if  I  knew  I  were  in  the  same 
town !  But  never  mind  me.  Don't  worry,  little  girl. 
/'//  think  up  a  way  to  save  you  all  right,  all  right." 

His  face,  as  he  spoke,  was  stern  and  dark.  She 
was  sure  that  he  must  have  great  latent  strength  of 
character. 

Abruptly  she  changed  the  subject  recalling  the  elu- 
sive mowing-machine  and  the  approach  of  the 
Brookes'  dinner-hour.  Willy  was  sure  that  Mr. 
Rivers  would  want  her  to  see  the  mower,  it  was — 
was — so  typically  American;  and  if  he  would  take 
260 


THE   LITTLE   LONELY   GIRL 

her  directly  and  swiftly  home,  wouldn't  she  go  on 
another  search  to-morrow  ? 

"If  you  win,"  said  she;  she  felt  that  she  must 
hesitate  at  nothing  which  would  give  him  that  cup. 
"Another  thing,  don't  you  give  another  thought  to 
me;  you  think  every  minute  of  your  game.  If  you 
distract  your  mind  it  may  get  onto  your  game." 

"I  won't  let  it  hurt  my  game,  don't  you  worry," 
returned  Willy  confidently. 

Mrs.  Brooke  had  none  of  the  difficulty  which  she 
had  anticipated  in  persuading  Willy  to  dine  with 
them;  and  she  wondered  what  suffering  friends  of 
hers  who  had  had  his  reluctant  presence  at  social 
functions,  meant  by  their  stories.  To  be  sure,  he 
didn't  talk  much,  but  he  was  a  most  intelligent  lis- 
tener; and  he  was  visibly  having  a  good  time. 

The  next  day  it  was  bruited  about  (no  one  but 
Jabez  Rivers,  who  had  walked  the  links  with  a  re- 
porter, could  have  quite  told  how)  that  young  But- 
ler was  playing  a  wonderful  game.  A  dozen  of  the 
golf  lovers  deserted  the  great  man  and  his  only  less 
great  opponent  and  saw  Willy  limp  over  eleven  links, 
as  he  beat  his  man  with  leisurely  ease. 

That  afternoon,  while  again  searching  for  the 
261 


STORIES    THAT    END    WELL 

mowing-machine  which  that  unsuspected  but  effi- 
cient emissary  of  the  Blind  God,  Jabez  Rivers,  had 
advised  them  to  be  sure  to  find — after  with  his  own 
eyes  he  had  seen  it  trundling  into  the  garage — Willy 
submitted  his  plan  of  rescue.  They  were  rolling 
noislessly  along  a  wide  avenue,  above  which  the 
great  elm  boughs  made  a  vaulted  arch  like  the 
groined  vault  of  a  cathedral.  Through  the  arches 
filtered  the  sunset  rose.  Willy  suddenly  stopped  the 
machine.  He  did  not  look  at  her.  He  clutched  the 
handle  of  the  lever  very  hard;  and  she  was  positive 
he  was  pale,  a  pallor  which  threw  his  freckles  into 
high  relief.  But  she  was  thinking  of  anything  else 
than  freckles. 

"I've  thought  it  all  out,"  said  Willy  very  firmly, 
"and  I  wouldn't  bother  you  the  least  little  bit,  not  the 
least.  And  we  think  alike  about  so  many  things.  I 
believe  I  could  make  it  all  right  with  your  people.  I 
can  do  anything,  when  you  are  backing  me.  It  would 
ease  my  mind  awfully;  I  should  be  sure  to  win  the 
cup.  I  know  that  would  please  my  father,  and  he'd 
help  us,  maybe.  Besides,  I've  a  fortune  of  my  own; 
I'd  settle  it  all  on  you — " 

"What  do  you  mean?"  cried  Lady  Jean. 
262 


THE   LITTLE   LONELY    GIRL 

"Yon  wouldn't  need  to  marry  anybody  else  if  you 
married  me,"  said  Willy. 

"My  word!"  gasped  Lady  Jean.  "But  you  told 
me  you  didn't  want  to  marry  anybody." 

"I  shouldn't  mind  you  so  much,"  said  he. 

She  was  thoughtful,  her  own  mind  a  chaos  to  her- 
self. She  stole  a  furtive  glance  at  his  miserable  face ; 
something  tender  and  compassionate  and  strange 
made  her  lips  quiver,  but  she  set  them  closely. 

"You  would  be  making  an  awful  sacrifice  for 
me?" 

He  did  not  deny  it. 

"It  would  be  an  awful  sacrifice  for  me,  too." 

"I  know,"  he  acquiesced  sadly. 

"Still — I  suppose  you  ought  to  have  your  mind 
settled  before  to-morrow  or  it  will  get  on  your 
game." 

"Yes,  that's  just  it !  I'd  be  awfully  grateful—" 

Without  any  warning  she  began  to  laugh.  "I 
think  you  are  the  funniest  boy  in  the  world !  I  don't 
want  to  marry  anybody.  I  want  to  live  with  daddy 
and  take  care  of  him  and  be  like  Aunt  Jean,  but  if  I 
have  to  marry  anybody,  I'd  rather  marry  you.  Shall 
we  let  it  go  at  that  for  the  present?" 
263 


STORIES   THAT    END    WELL 

"You  are  awfully  good,"  cried  the  boy.  He  won- 
dered at  the  extraordinary  calm,  almost  elation,  of 
his  mood.  That  he  should  be  engaged  to  be  married 
and  not  be  revolving  suicide !  He  had  read  of  the 
exaltation  of  self-sacrifice — maybe  this  was  it.  But 
how  hard  it  must  be  for  her. 

"I'll  make  it  just  as  easy  for  you  as  I  can — dear." 
He  added  the  last  word  very  softly.  Probably  she 
didn't  hear  it,  for  she  answered  in  her  ordinary  tone, 
not  in  the  least  offended,  that  she  knew  he  would, 
then  immediately  demanded  a  sight  of  the  mowing- 
machine  ;  since  it  wasn't  there,  he  would  better  take 
her  home. 

"Don't  you  begin  to  love  this  island?"  he  said,  as 
he  obeyed  her. 

"It  is  lovely,"  she  said :  "I  never  thought  I  could 
really  like  any  place  without  mountains,  but  I  do." 

"I  love  mountains,"  said  Willy. 

"They  were  again  surprised  at  their  similarity  of 
taste.  Motor-cars  and  carriages  passed  them  con- 
tinually; luxurious  open  vehicles,  victorias  and  golf- 
carts  and  automobiles  with  their  hoods  lowered, 
disclosing  billows  of  diaphanous  feminine  finery  and 
pretty,  uncovered  girlish  heads.  Willy  marveled  over 
264 


THE   LITTLE   LONELY   GIRL 

his  own  ease  as  he  returned  greetings  punctili- 
ously. A  week  ago  he  would  have  raced  his  horse 
into  the  darkest  woodland  road  to  escape  a  passing 
salute,  the  hazard  of  a  little  casual  badinage. 

"How  pretty  American  girls  are,"  said  Lady  Jean 
a  little  wistfully;  "such  lovely  wavy  hair." 

Willy's  glance  furtively  took  note  of  her  sleek 
brown  head  and  the  heavy  braid  between  her  slim 
shoulders,  which  had  caused  him  to  think  her  a  child. 

"I  don't  much  like  this  corrugated  hair,"  said  he 
carelessly ;  "it  looks  so  machine-made." 

Lady  Jean  declined  all  proffers  of  seats,  even  Riv- 
ers' invitation  to  a  place  by  him  in  his  runabout.  She 
was  going  to  walk;  one  could  see  better  walking. 
Which  was  entirely  correct,  but  was  not  her  most 
intimate  reason ;  in  truth  she  could  not  endure  to  be 
sitting  at  her  ease  while  Willy,  footsore  and  weary, 
would  be  doggedly  tramping  after  his  ball.  He  pre- 
sented rather  a  grotesque  figure,  did  Willy,  that 
eventful  morning,  being  shod  as  to  his  sound  foot 
with  one  of  his  own  neat  golf  shoes,  but  as  to  his 
left  (thanks  to  the  ministrations  of  Rivers,  with  one 
of  the  latter's  ample  slippers  over  swathings  of  ban- 
dage soaked  in  healing-lotion.  Every  caddy  on  the 
265 


STORIES    THAT    END   WELL 

ground  (except  Willy's)  was  in  secret  ecstasies  over 
his  appearance.  "We  ain't  out  for  a  beauty  prize, 
but  the  champeen  golf  cup,"  says  the  faithful 
Tommy  haughtily.  "Yes,  that's  a  bottle  of  lini- 
ment. I  wet  him  up  with  it  between  whiles.  He's 
in  terrible  agony.  But  he  don't  mind  long's  he  can 
keep  limber.  And  say,  jest  git  onto  our  game,  will 
you?  Two  up,  and  first  round  over." 

Tommy  and  Jean  were  waiting  when  the  first 
round  ended,  Rivers  having  taken  the  Brookes  to  the 
luncheon-tent  to  secure  seats  for  them  all.  The  game 
that  morning  had  surprised  all  but  the  newspaper 
men  and  the  few  who  had  followed  Willy  the  day 
before.  The  only  hope  of  the  friends  of  the  cham- 
pion lay  in  the  possible  exhaustion  of  the  lame  won- 
der whose  unerring  approaches  were  even  more 
dangerous  than  his  drives  and  his  putts.  "If  his  foot 
holds  out,"  Rivers  said  to  Brooke,  "he's  got  the  cup." 

And  at  this  very  moment,  as  if  fate  conspired 
against  Willy's  chances,  a  frightful  commotion 
arose.  Willy,  talking  to  Jean  a  moment  about  the 
game,  could  see  the  gay  groups  outside  the  white  tent 
scatter  in  violent  agitation  with  waving  hands ;  could 
hear  an  uproar  of  shouts  and  screams.  There  came 
266 


THE   LITTLE   LONELY    GIRL 

a  quick  change  in  Lady  Jean's  face,  in  every  face 
near — the  caddy's,  the  young  red-jacketed  officer's 
at  the  blackboard,  the  women's  faces  in  a  passing 
carriage.  At  first  no  intelligible  sound  penetrated  the 
din;  but  in  a  thought's  time  a,  blood-curdling  cry 
tore  out  of  a  score  of  throats,  "Mad  dog!  Mad 
dog !"  as  men  with  golf-irons  and  pistols,  raced  to- 
ward the  little  group  on  the  links,  after  a  foam- 
flecked,  glaring-eyed,  panting  little  beast.  The  crea- 
ture made  straight  for  Tommy,  who  fled  like  a  deer; 
but  his  foot  hit  the  marker,  and  he  stumbled  and  fell. 
It  seemed  in  the  same  eye-blink  that  the  dog  was  on 
the  child  and  Willy  Butler  was  on  the  dog,  his  bare 
hands  twisting  its  collar  into  a  tourniquet. 

With  one  impulse  Lady  Jean  and  the  young  of- 
ficer each  snatched  a  golf-club  and  sprang  to  help 
him.  "Keep  off !"  he  cried.  "I  can  hold  him.  Get  a 
strap;  we  have  to  keep  him  alive  to  find  out — Jean! 
For  God's  sake — " 

His  heart  seemed  to  stand  still.  Lady  Jean  had 
dropped  on  her  knees  by  the  dog,  shielding  him  from 
the  young  officer's  club.  "Don't,"  she  said;  "he's 
not  mad !  It's  Mrs.  Brooke's  dog —  Why  can't  you 
see?  The  poor  brute's  wagging  his  tail!" 
267 


STORIES   THAT    END   WELL 

'  "He  is,"  said  Willy ;  "hold  up,  boys !  A  mad  dog 
doesn't  wag  his  tail."  He  released  the  tourniquet 
sufficiently  to  free  a  piteous  whimper.  A  second 
later  he  lifted  his  hand  off  the  dog,  which  wriggled 
into  Lady  Jean's  compassionate  arms  as  a  voice  an- 
nounced, "That's  not  the  dog !" 

The  real  mad  dog — if  mad  he  were — had  been  de- 
spatched by  a  single  shot  from  a  soldier's  gun,  rods 
away ;  but  a  panic-stricken  crowd  had  used  the  cus- 
tomary judgment  of  panic,  and  pursued  the  wrong 
dog. 

"And  now,"  wrathfully  declared  Jabez  Rivers  to 
his  army  cronies,  "now  that  poor  boy  has  probably 
put  his  wrist  out  of  whack;  and  his  father  coming 
in  on  the  two  o'clock  train  to  see  him  fight  for  the 
cup!  And  this  old  fool  telegraphed  for  him  to 
come." 

Nevertheless  he  kept  a  semblance  of  confidence. 
And  he  has  always  liked  Dickson  because  he  was  so 
sure  Willy  would  win.  He  offered  to  caddy  for 
Willy;  but  Willy  gratefully  declined,  because  it 
would  break  Tommy's  heart ;  Tommy's  mother  was 
coming  over  to  see  the  game.  "He's  a  real  dead- 
game  sport,"  Dickson  ended,  "and  a  little  thing  like 
268 


THE   LITTLE   LONELY    GIRL 

a  spurious  mad  dog  isn't  going  to  put  him  out  of  the 
running." 

Nor  did  it ;  Cleaves  made  up  one  of  his  missing 
holes,  but  he  got  no  farther;  and  at  the  sixteenth 
hole  Rivers  and  a  small,  keen-eyed,  quiet-looking 
man  stood  up  in  a  runabout  and  shouted  while  the 
great  Cleaves,  bewildered  but  invincibly  courteous, 
shook  hands  with  Willy  Butler. 

"You  wait  until  he  has  cleaned  up  a  bit"  advised 
Rivers;  "give  the  boy's  girl  a  chance  first — there 
they  are ;  she's  talking  to  him  now." 

Mr.  Butler  knew  who  she  was;  she  had  been 
pointed  out  to  him  before;  possibly  having  watched 
her  carefully  through  the  progress  of  the  game,  he 
knew  something  else,  being  a  man  who  came  to  con- 
clusions quickly,  on  occasion.  He  looked  at  her  now ; 
he  looked  at  Rivers ;  the  only  words  that  escaped  his 
lips — in  a  very  small,  low  voice — were,  "Wouldn't 
that  make  a  man  believe  in  answers  to  prayers !" 

"Willy's  been  going  some,"  said  Rivers.  "I  don't 
know  who  you've  up  your  sleeve  for  him,  but  we've 
picked  out  a  winner — a  sweet,  brave,  true-hearted 
little  lady.  Don't  you  butt  in,  Hiram." 

"Well,  hardly,"  said  Hiram  Butler,  "since  her 
269 


STORIES   THAT    END   WELL 

father  and  I  picked  her  out  first.  But,  Jabez,  blood 
will  tell ;  I  knew  Willy  had  the  makings.  Now  sup- 
pose you  and  I  put  the  young  folks  into  the  machine. 
They  can  do  their  courting  on  the  way." 

It  may  be  presumed  that  he  knew,  although  they 
took  their  own  original  way  to  Arcadia.  Fifteen  min- 
utes later,  in  the  heart  of  the  woods  which  they  had 
sought  because,  although  much  longer  to  the  club- 
house by  that  road,  Willy  needed  its  cool  refresh- 
ment; fifteen  minutes  later  the  boy  was  saying,  "I 
had  to  write  the  note  because  I  didn't  have  a  chance 
to  see  you.  Have  you  read  it  ?"  He  looked  up  trem- 
ulously. "I  write  an  awfully  blind  handwriting  al- 
ways, and  to-day,  with  playing  golf  and  all,  it's 
worse  than  ever." 

"You  could  read  it  out  to  me,  you  know,"  said  the 
girl ;  she  pulled  the  score-card,  on  which  Willy  had 
scribbled,  from  her  sleeve,  and  both  the  young  heads 
bent  over  it.  "'Dear  Jean,'"  read  Willy;  then  he 
added,  "I  hope  you  don't  think  that  presumptuous, 
but  being  engaged — " 

"No,  never  mind  that ;  you  called  me  that  to-day, 
already,  at  the  top  of  your  voice,  too." 

"You  scared  me  stiff — Jean." 
270 


THE   LITTLE   LONELY    GIRL 

"You  scared  me  first — before  I  knew  it  was 
Flukes.  You  are  an  awfully  reckless  boy." 

"I  will  go  on,"  said  Willy;  "it's  short."  He  read: 

"  'Dear  Jean,  I  forgot  to  say  one  thing  yesterday 
when  I  asked  you  to  marry  me ;  I  love  and  adore  you. 
Yours  very  sincerely,  William  Godfrey  Butler.'  " 

He  said  nothing  more;  neither  did  she  say  any- 
thing for  a  space.  The  squirrels  watched  them  with 
their  bright  little  eyes,  and  scampered  fearlessly  up 
the  very  tree  under  which  their  car  had  halted.  All 
at  once  she  began  to  laugh.  "My  word !  but  you  look 
miserable,  William  Butler.  I  know  it  is  a  sacrifice; 
I  made  up  my  mind  to  release  you ;  I  only  consented 
yesterday  to  make  you  easy  in  your  mind  for  the 
game." 

Then  he  surprised  her.  "That  was  yesterday," 
said  he.  "To-day  I  know  why  all  the  world  has  been 
•different  ever  since  I  saw  you;  I  knew  everything 
I  felt  when  you  ran  to  that  dog — " 

"Then  it  will  not  be  an  awful  sacrifice  for  you?" 

He  took  her  little  cold  brown  hand ;  I  had  forgot- 
ten there  was  such  a  thing  in  the  world  as  fear.  "It 
will  be  heaven  for  me,"  he  said.  "But  for  you  ?" 

She  looked  away  at  the  squirrels ;  she  tried  in  vain 
271 


STORIES    THAT   END   WELL 

to  speak  in  her  gay,  light  tone.  "I — I  found  out 
something  this  morning,  too." 

So  Arcady  lured  two  new  explorers,  who,  going 
through  its  subtly  winding  paths,  naturally  took 
quite  a  little  while  to  reach  the  club-house  and  the 
ovation  waiting  the  champion.  Just  outside  the  por- 
tals Lady  Jean  uttered  a  little  cry.  "Why,  I  do  be- 
lieve! Why,  Willy!  There's  the  motor  mower  1" 

There  in  the  body,  resting  amid  long  lines  of  green 
stubble,  there,  indeed,  stood  the  long-sought  mower. 

"I'm  obliged  to  it,"  said  Willy,  "but  I  don't  need 
it  now." 


272 


THE  HERO  OF  COMPANY  G 

THE  flies  and  the  sun !  The  sun  and  the  flies ! 
The  two  tents  of  the  division  ward  in  the  hos- 
pital had  been  pitched  end  to  end,  thus  turning  them 
into  one.  The  sun  filtered  through  the  cracks  of  the 
canvas;  it  poured  in  a  broad,  dancing,  shifting  col- 
umn of  gold  through  the  open  tent  flap.  The  air  was 
hot,  not  an  endurable,  dry  heat,  but  a  moist,  sticky 
heat  which  drew  an  intolerable  mist  from  the  water 
standing  in  pools  beneath  the  plain  flooring  of  the 
tents.  The  flies  had  no  barrier  and  they  entered  in 
noisome  companies,  to  swarm,  heavily  buzzing, 
about  the  medicine  spoons  and  the  tumblers  and 
crawl  over  the  nostrils  and  mouths  of  the  typhoid 
patients,  too  weakj  and  stupid  to  brush  them  away. 
The  other  sick  men  would  lift  their  feeble  skeletons 
of  hands  against  them ;  and  a  tall  soldier  who  walked 
between  the  cots  and  was  the  sole  nurse  on  duty, 
waved  his  palm-leaf  fan  at  them  and  swore  softly 
under  his  breath. 

273 


STORIES   THAT   END   .WELL 

There  were  ten  serious  cases  in  the  ward.  The 
soldier  was  a  raw  man  detailed  only  the  day  before 
and  not  used  to  nursing,  being  a  blacksmith  in  civil 
life.  An  overworked  surgeon  had  instructed  him  in 
the  use  of  a  thermometer;  but  he  was  much  more 
confident  of  the  success  of  his  lesson  than  the  in- 
structed one.  There  was  one  case  in  particular 
bothered  the  nurse ;  he  returned  to  the  cot  where  this 
case  lay  more  than  once  and  eyed  the  gaunt  figure 
which  lay  so  quietly  under  the  sheet,  with  a  dejected 
attention.  Once  he  laid  his  hand  shyly  on  the  sick 
man's  forehead,  and  when  he  took  it  away  he 
strangled  a  desperate  sort  of  sigh.  Then  he  walked 
to  the  end  of  the  tent  and  stared  dismally  down  the 
camp  street,  flooded  with  sunshine.  "Well,  thank 
God,  there's  Spruce!"  said  he.  A  man  in  a  khaki 
uniform,  carying  a  bale  of  mosquito  netting,  was 
walking  smartly  through  the  glare.  He  stopped  at 
the  tent.  "How  goes  it?"  said  he,  cheerfully  but  in 
the  lowest  of  tones.  He  was  a  short  man  and  thin, 
but  with  a  good  color  under  his  tan,  and  teeth  gleam- 
ing at  his  smile,  white  as  milk. 

"Why,  I'm  kinder  worried  about  Maxwell — " 
Before  he  could  finish  his  sentence,  Spruce  was 
274 


THE   HERO    OF   COMPANY   G 

at  Maxwell's  cot.  His  face  changed.  "Git  the  hot- 
water  bottle  quick's  you  can !"  he  muttered,  "and  git 
the  screen — the  one  I  made!"  As  he  spoke  he  was 
dropping  brandy  into  the  corners  of  Maxwell's 
mouth.  The  brandy  trickled  down  the  chin. 

"He  looks  awful  quiet,  don't  he?"  whispered  the 
nurse  with  an  awestruck  glance. 

"You  git  them  things !"  said  Spruce,  and  he  sent  a 
flash  of  his  eyes  after  his  words,  whereat  the  soldier 
shuffled  out  of  the  tent,  returning  first  with  the  screen 
and  last  with  the  bottles.  Then  he  watched  Spruce's 
rapid  but  silent  movements.  At  last  he  ventured  to 
breathe:  "Say,  he  ain't — he  ain't — he  ain't — ?" 

Spruce  nodded.  The  other  turned  a  kind  of  groan 
into  a  cough  and  wiped  his  face.  Awkwardly  he 
helped  Spruce  wherever  there  was  the  chance  for  a 
hand ;  and  in  a  little  while  his  bungling  agitation 
reached  the  worker,  who  straightened  up  and  turned 
a  grim  face  on  him. 

"Was  it  me?"  he  whispered  then.  "For  God's 
sake,  Spruce — I  did  everything  the  doctor  told  me, 
nigh's  I  could  remember.  I  didn't  disturb  him, 
'cause  he  'peared  to  be  asleep.  I — I  never  saw  a  man 
die  before!" 

275 


STORIES   THAT    END    WELL 

"It  ain't  no  fault  of  yours,"  said  Spruce  in  the 
same  low  whisper.  "I'm  sorry  for  you.  Did  you 
give  him  the  ice  I  got?" 

"Yes,  I  did,  Sergeant." 

"And  was  there  enough  for  Green  and  Dick  Dan- 
vers?" 

"Yes,  I  kept  it  rolled  up  in  flannel  and  newspapers. 
Say,  I  got  a  little  more,  Sergeant." 

"How?" 

"The  doctors  or  some  fellers  had  a  tub  of  lemon- 
ade outside,  a  little  bit  further  down.  I  chipped  off 
a  bit." 

Spruce  ground  his  teeth,  but  he  made  no  comment. 
All  he  said  was,  "You  go  git  Captain  Hale  and  re- 
port. Tell  the  captain  I  got  his  folks'  address. 
They'll  want  him  sent  home.  They're  rich  folks 
and  they  were  coming  on;  guess  they're  on  the  way 
now.  Be  quiet !" 

The  soldier  was  looking  at  the  placid  face.  A 
sob  choked  him.  "He  said,  Thank  you,'  every  time 
I  gave  him  anything,"  he  gulped.  "God !  it's  murder 
to  put  fools  like  me  at  nursing ;  and  the  country  full 
of  women  that  know  how  and  want  to  come !" 
276 


THE   HERO   OF   COMPANY   G 

"S-s-s !  Tain't  no  good  talking.  You  done  your 
best.  Go  and  report." 

As  the  wretched  soldier  lumbered  off,  Spruce  set 
his  teeth  on  an  ugly  oath. 

"I  ought  to  have  stayed,  maybe,"  he  thought,  "but 
I've  been  doing  with  so  little  sleep,  my  head  was  feel- 
ing dirty  queer ;  and  the  doctor  sent  me.  Collapse, 
of  course;  temperature  ran  down  to  normal,  and 
jxxn*  Tooley  didn't  notice,  and  him  too  weak  to  talk ! 
Well,  I  hope  I  git  the  G  boys  through,  that's  all  I 
ask!" 

He  went  over  to  the  next  cot,  where  lay  the  near- 
est of  the  G  boys,  greeting  him  cheerily.  "Hello, 
Dick?" 

Dick  was  a  handsome  young  specter,  just  begin- 
ning to  turn  the  corner  in  a  bad  case  of  typhoid 
fever.  His  blue  eyes  lighted  at  Spruce's  voice;  and 
he  sent  a  smile  back  at  Spruce's  smile.  "Did  you 
get  some  sleep?"  said  he.  "What's  that  you  have 
in  your  hand  ?" 

''That's  milk,  real  milk  from  a  cow.  Yes,  lots  of 
sleep;  you  drink  that." 

The  sick  man  drank  it  with  an  expression  of 
277 


STORIES    THAT    END    WELL 

pleasure.  "I  don't  believe  any  of  the  others  get 
milk,"  he  murmured;  "save  the  rest  for  Edgar." 

"Edgar  don't  need  it,  Dick,"  Spruce  answered 
gently. 

Dick  drew  a  long,  shivering  sigh  and  his  eyes 
wandered  to  the  screen.  "He  was  a  soldier  and  he 
died  for  his  country  jest  the  same  as  if  he  were  hit 
by  a  Mauser,"  said  Spruce — he  had  taken  the  sick 
boy's  long,  thin  hand  and  was  smoothing  his  fingers. 

"It's  no  more  'an  what  we  all  got  to  expect  when 
we  enlist." 

"Of  course,"  said  Dick,  smiling,  "that's  all  right, 
for  him  or  for  me,  but  he — he  was  an  awfully  good 
fellow,  Chris." 

"Sure,"  said  Spruce.  "Now,  you  lie  still ;  I  got  to 
look  after  the  other  boys." 

"Come  back  when  you  have  seen  them,  Chris." 

"Sure." 

Spruce  made  his  rounds.  He  was  the  star  nurse 
of  the  hospital.  It  was  partly  experience.  Chris 
Spruce  had  been  a  soldier  in  the  regulars  and  fought 
Indians  and  helped  the  regimental  surgeon  through 
a  bad  attack  of  typhoid.  But  it  was  as  much  a 
natural  gift.  Chris  had  a  light  foot,  a  quick  eye, 
278 


THE    HERO    OF   COMPANY   G 

a  soft  voice;  he  was  indomitably  cheerful  and  con- 
soled the  most  querulous  patient  in  the  ward  by  de- 
scribing how  much  better  was  his  lot  with  no  worse 
than  septic  pneumonia,  than  that  of  a  man  whom  he 
(Spruce)  had  known  well  who  was  scalped.  Spruce 
had  enlisted  from  a  Western  town  where  he  had 
happened  to  be  at  the  date  of  his  last  discharge.  He 
had  a  great  opinion  of  the  town.  And  he  never  tired 
recalling  the  scene  of  their  departure,  amid  tears 
and  cheers  and  the  throbbing  music  of  a  brass  band, 
with  their  pockets  full  of  cigars,  and  an  extra  car 
full  of  luncheon  boxes,  and  a  thousand  dollars  com- 
pany spending  money  to  their  credit. 

"A  man  he  comes  up  to  me,"  says  Spruce,  "big 
man  in  the  town,  rich  and  all  that.  He  says,  calling 
me  by  name — I  don't  know  how  he  ever  got  my 
name,  but  he  had  it — he  says,  Tm  told  you've  been 
with  the  regulars;  look  after  the  boys  a  little,'  says 
he.  That  I  will,'  says  I,  'I've  been  six  years  in  the 
service  and  I  know  a  few  wrinkles.'  I  do,  too.  He 
gave  me  a  five-dollar  bill  after  he'd  talked  a  while  to 
me,  and  one  of  his  own  cigars.  'Remember  the 
town's  back  of  you!'  says  he.  Tis,  too.  I'd  a  letter 
from  the  committee  they  got  there,  asking  if  we  had 
279 


STORIES   THAT    END    WELL 

everything;  offering  to  pay  for  nurses  if  they'd  be 
allowed.     Oh,  it's  a  bully  town!" 

Spruce  himself  had  never  known  the  sweets  of 
local  pride.  He  had  drifted  about  in  the  world,  until 
at  twenty  he  drifted  into  the  regular  army.  He  had 
no  kindred  except  a  brother  whose  career  was  so 
little  creditable  that  Spruce  was  relieved  when  it 
ended — were  the  truth  known,  in  a  penitentiary.  He 
had  an  aunt  of  whom  he  often  spoke  and  whom  he 
esteemed  a  credit  to  the  family.  She  was  a  widow 
woman  in  an  Iowa  village,  who  kept  a  boarding 
house  for  railway  men,  and  had  reared  a  large  fam- 
ily, not  one  of  whom  (Spruce  was  accustomed  to 
explain  in  moments  of  expansion,  on  pay-day,  when 
his  heart  had  been  warmed  with  good  red  liquor) 
had  ever  been  to  jail.  Spruce  had  never  seen  this 
estimable  woman,  but  he  felt  on  terms  of  intimacy 
with  her  because,  occasionally,  on  these  same  pay- 
days, he  would  mail  her  a  five-dollar  bank-note,  the 
receipt  of  which  was  always  promptly  acknowledged 
by  a  niece  who  could  spell  most  of  her  words  correct- 
ly and  who  always  thanked  him  for  his  "kind  and 
welcome  gift,"  told  him  what  they  proposed  to  do 
with  the  money,  and  invited  him  to  come  to  see  them. 
280 


THE    HERO    OF    COMPANY   G 

He  always  meant  to  go,  although  he  never  did  go. 
It  was  his  favorite  air-castle,  being  able  to  go  on  fur- 
lough to  the  village  where  his  aunt  lived  and  show 
his  medal.  He  had  won  the  medal  in  an  Indian 
fight  where  he  had  rescued  his  captain.  The  cap- 
tain died  of  his  wounds  and  Spruce  never  got  drunk 
(which  I  regret  to  confess  he  did  oftener  than  was 
good  either  for  his  soul  or  the  service)  that  he  didn't 
talk  about  his  captain,  who  had  been  his  hero ;  and 
cry  over  him.  Spruce,  who  was  a  cheery  creature  in 
his  normal  state,  always  developed  sentiment  and 
pathos  when  he  was  revealed  by  liquor.  Now  he  had 
another  day-dream.  It  was  to  be  greeted  by  the 
cheering  crowds — again  he  would  march  down  the 
sunny  streets  with  the  band  playing,  amid  the  faces 
and  the  shouts.  And  the  men  who  had  stood  by  the 
company  so  stanchly  would  be  pointing  him  out 
and  telling  each  other  his  mythical  exploits — and 
adding  the  record  of  his  Indian  exploits — which 
Spruce  felt  that  an  inattentive  country  had  not  ap- 
preciated. A  dozen  times  a  day  he  pictured  the 
scene,  he  mentally  listened  to  the  talk — he,  walking 
with  a  rigid  and  unseeing  military  mien.  He  ap- 
proximated the  number  of  glasses  a  man  could  take 
281 


STORIES   THAT    END   WELL 

without  even  grazing  indecorum — for  he  was  deter- 
mined he  would  not  be  riotous  in  his  joy — and  he 
used  to  whistle  the  refrain  of  a  convivial  song: 

Enj'y  yourselves,  enj'y  yourselves 
But  don't  do  no  disgrace ! 

Meanwhile,  his  consciousness  of  in  some  way  car- 
ing for  the  whole  company  held  him  a  model  of 
sobriety.  In  fact,  he  did  take  care  of  the  company, 
secretly  instructing  the  captain  in  the  delicacies  of 
military  etiquette  and  primitive  sanitary  conditions, 
and  openly  showing  the  commissary  sergeant  how  to 
make  requisitions  and  barter  his  superfluous  rations 
for  acceptable  canned  goods  at  the  groceries  of  the 
town.  He  explained  all  the  regulars'  artless  devices 
for  being  comfortable;  he  mended  the  boys'  morals 
and  their  blouses  in  the  same  breath ;  and  he  incul- 
cated all  the  regular  traditions  and  superstitions. 
But  it  is  to  be  confessed  again,  that  while  Spruce 
was  living  laboriously  up  to  his  lights  of  righteous- 
ness under  this  new  stimulus,  the  lights  were  rather 
dim;  and,  in  particular,  as  regards  the  duty  of  a  man 
to  pick  up  outlying  portable  property  for  his  com- 
282 


THE   HERO    OF   COMPANY   G 

pany — they  would  have  shocked  a  police  magistrate. 
Neither  did  he  rank  among  the  martial  virtues 
the  ornament  of  a  meek  and  quiet  spirit.  "A 
good  captain  is  always  a  kicker,"  says  Spruce  firmly ; 
"he's  got  to  be.  Look  at  this  here  camp,  Captain ;  the 
mess  tent's  all  under  water;  we're  standing  in  the 
slush  every  damned  meal  we  eat.  Water's  under  our 
tent,  water — " 

"I  know,  I  know,  Sergeant,"  interrupts  the  per- 
plexed and  worried  young  captain,  a  clever  young 
dandy  bright  enough  to  be  willing  to  take  wisdom 
without  shoulder  straps;  "I've  been  to  the  colonel; 
he  agrees  with  me,  and  he's  been  to  Major  Green, 
and  that's  all  comes  of  it.  I  don't  see  what  I  can  do 
further,  if  I  did — " 

"Begging  your  pardon,  Captain,  the  men  will  be 
falling  sick  soon  and  dying.  They're  weakened  by 
the  climate  and  being  fretted,  expecting  always  to 
git  off  and  never  going." 

"But  what  can  I  do?  Oh,  speak  out,  we're  off 
here  alone.  Have  you  any  idea?" 

"Well,  sir,  if  you  was  my  captain  in  the  old  — th, 
you'd  say  to  the  colonel,  'Colonel,  I've  remonstrated 
and  remonstrated.  Now  I'm  desperate.  I'm  des- 

283 


STORIES   THAT   END   WELL 

perate,'  says  you.  'If  there  ain't  something  done  to- 
morrow I'm  going  to  march  my  company  out  and 
find  a  new  camp,  and  you  kin  court-martial  me  if 
you  please.  I'd  rather  stand  a  court-martial  than 
see  my  men  die !'  He'd  talk  real  pleasant  at  first,  so 
as  to  git  in  all  his  facts,  and  then  he'd  blaze  away. 
And  he'd  do  it,  too,  if  they  didn't  listen." 

The  captain  gave  the  sergeant  a  keen  glance.  "And 
that's  your  notion  of  discipline?"  said  he. 

"There's  a  newspaper  fellow  asking  for  you,  Cap- 
tain, this  morning.  I  see  him  a-coming  now,"  was 
the  sergeant's  oblique  response.  But  he  chuckled, 
walking  stiffly  away,  "He'll  do  it ;  I  bet  we  won't  be 
here  two  days  longer."  For  which  glee  there  was 
reason,  since,  inside  the  hour,  the  captain  was  in 
the  colonel's  tent,  concluding  an  eloquent  picture  of 
his  company's  discomforts  with  "Somebody  has  to 
do  something.  If  you  are  powerless,  Colonel,  I'm 
not.  If  they  don't  give  some  assurance  of  changing 
the  camp  to-morrow  I  shall  march  Company  G  out 
and  pitch  a  camp  myself,  and  stand  a  court-martial. 
I  would  rather  risk  a  court-martial  than  see  my  men 
die — and  that's  what  it  has  come  to !" 

The  colonel  looked  the  fiery  young  speaker  sternly 
284 


THE    HERO    OF    COMPANY   G 

in  the  eye,  and  said  something  about  unsoldierly  con- 
duct. 

"It  would  be  unmanly  conduct  for  me  to  let  the 
boys  trusted  to  me  die,  because  I  was  afraid  to 
speak  out,"  flung  back  the  captain.  "And  I  know 
one  thing:  if  I  am  court-martialed  the  papers  are 
likely  to  get  the  true  story." 

"You  mean  the  reporter  on  the  Chicago  papers 
who  is  snooping  around?  Let  me  advise  you  to 
give  him  a  wide  berth." 

"I  mean  nothing  of  the  kind,  sir.  I  only  mean 
that  the  thing  will  not  be  done  in  a  corner." 

"Well,  well,  keep  cool,  Captain,  you're  too  good 
a  fellow  to  fling  yourself  away.  Wait  and  see  if  I 
can't  get  something  definite  out  of  the  major  to- 
day." 

Whereupon  the  captain  departed  with  outward 
decent  gloom  and  inward  premonitions  of  rejoicing, 
for  when  he  had  hit  a  nail  on  the  head  he  had  eyes 
to  see.  And  the  colonel  betook  himself,  hot- foot,  to 
the  pompous  old  soldier  in  charge  of  the  camp,  who 
happened  to  be  a  man  of  fixed  belief  in  himself,  but, 
if  he  feared  anything,  was  afraid  of  a  newspaper  re- 
porter. The  colonel  gave  him  the  facts,  sparing  no 
285 


STORIES    THAT    END    WELL 

squalid  detail ;  indeed,  adding  a  few  picturesque  em- 
bellishments from  his  own  observations.  He  cut 
short  the  other's  contemptuous  criticism  of  boy  sol- 
diers, and  his  comparison  with  the  hardships  en- 
dured during  the  Civil  War,  with  a  curt  "I  know 
they  fooled  away  men's  lives  then ;  that  is  no  reason 
we  should  fool  them  away  now.  The  men  are  sick- 
ening to-day — they  will  be  dying  to-morrow ;  I'm 
desperate.  If  that  camp  is  not  changed  by  to-mor- 
row I  shall  march  my  regiment  out  myself  and  pitch 
my  own  camp,  and  you  may  court-martial  me  for  it 
if  you  like.  I  would  rather  stand  a  court-martial 
than  see  my  men  die,  because  I  was  afraid  to  speak 
out!  The  camp  we  have  now  is  murder,  as  the  re- 
porters say!  I  don't  wonder  that  young  fellow 
from  Chicago  talks  hard!" 

"You're  excited,  Colonel;  you  forget  yourself." 
"I  am  excited,  Major;  I'm  desperate!    Will  you 
walk  round  the  camp  with  me?" 

The  end  of  the  colloquy  was  that  the  captain  saw 
the  major  and  the  colonel  and  told  the  first-lieuten- 
ant, who  told  the  first-sergeant,  whose  name  was 
Spruce.  "Captain's  kicked  to  the  colonel,  I  guess," 
says  Spruce,  "and  colonel's  kicked  to  the  major. 
286 


THE    HERO    OF    COMPANY   G 

That's  the  talk.  Git  ready,  boys,  and  pack."  True 
enough,  the  camp  was  moved  the  very  next  day. 

"I  guess  captain  will  make  an  officer  if  he  lives 
and  don't  git  the  big  head,"  Spruce  moralized.  "It's 
mighty  prevalent  in  the  volunteers/' 

The  captain  wrote  the  whole  account  home  to  one 
single  confidant — his  father — and  him  he  swore  to 
secrecy.  The  captain's  father  was  the  man  who  had 
committed  Company  G  to  Spruce's  good  offices.  He 
sent  a  check  to  the  company  and  a  special  box  of 
cigars  to  Spruce.  And  Spruce,  knowing  nothing  of 
the  intermediary,  felt  a  more  brilliant  pride  in  his 
adopted  town,  and  bragged  of  its  virtues  more  ve- 
hemently than  ever.  The  camp  was  not  moved  soon 
enough.  Pneumonia  and  typhoid  fever  appeared. 
One  by  one  the  boys  of  the  regiment  sickened.  Pres- 
ently one  by  one  they  began  to  die. 

Then  Spruce  suggested  to  the  captain:  "I  guess 
I'd  be  more  good  in  the  hospital  than  I  am  here, 
Captain."  And  the  captain  (who  was  scared,  poor 
lad,  and  had  visions  of  the  boys'  mothers  demanding 
the  wasted  lives  of  their  sons  at  his  hands)  had  his 
best  sergeant  put  on  the  sick  detail.  If  Spruce  had 
been  useful  in  camp  he  was  invaluable  in  hospital. 
287 


STORIES    THAT    END    WELL 

The  head  surgeon  leaned  on  him,  with  a  jest,  and  the 
young  surgeon  in  charge  with  pretense  of  abuse. 
"You'll  burst  if  you  don't  work  off  your  steam, 
Spruce,  so  out  with  it.  What  is  it  now?"  In  this 
fashion  he  really  sought  both  information  and  sug- 
gestion. Nor  was  he  above  being  instructed  in  the 
innumerable  delicacies  of  requisitions  by  the  old 
regular,  and  he  did  not,  when  requisitions  were  un- 
answered and  supplies  appeared  in  unusual  form,  ask 
any  embarrassing  questions.  "I  get  'em  from  the  Red 
Cross,  sir,"  was  Spruce's  invariable  and  unques- 
tioned formula. 

And  the  doctor  in  his  reports  accounted  for  what 
he  had  received  and  complained  lustily  because  his 
requisitions  were  not  honored,  even  as  Spruce  had 
desired,  and,  thereby,  he  obtained  much  credit,  in  the 
days  to  come.  Spruce  did  not  obtain  any  particular 
credit,  but  he  saved  a  few  lives,  it  is  likely ;  and  the 
sick  men  found  him  better  Jhan  medicine.  The  cap- 
tain always  handed  the  committee  letters  over  to 
him ;  and  bought  whatever  he  desired. 

"Captain's  going  to  distinguish  himself,  give  him 
a  chance,"  thought  Spruce,  "he's  got  sense  I" 

And  by  degrees  he  began  to  feel  for  the  young 
288 


THE   HERO    OF   COMPANY   G 

volunteer  a  reflection  of  the  worship  which  had 
secretly  been  offered  to  a  certain  fat  little  bald- 
headed  captain  of  the  old  — steenth.  His  picture 
of  the  great  day  when  he  should  have  his  triumph 
— quite  as  dear  to  him,  perhaps,  as  any  Roman  gen- 
eral's to  the  Roman — now  always  included  a  vision 
of  the  captain,  slender  and  straight  and  bright-eyed, 
at  the  head  of  the  line;  and  he  always  could  see  the 
captain,  later  in  the  day,  presenting  him  to  his 
father;  "Here's  Sergeant  Spruce,  who  has  coached 
us  all !"  He  had  overheard  those  very  words  once 
said  to  a  girl  visiting  the  camp,  and  they  clung  to  his 
memory  with  the  persistent  sweetness  of  the  odor 
of  violets. 

To-day  he  was  thinking  much  more  of  the  captain 
than  of  young  Danvers,  though  Danvers  ranked  next 
in  his  good  will.  Danvers  was  a  college  lad  who  had 
begged  and  blustered  his  mother  into  letting  him  go. 
He  would  not  let  her  know  how  ill  he  was,  but  had 
the  captain  write  to  his  married  sister,  in  the  same 
town  but  not  the  same  house.  She,  in  sore  per- 
plexity, wrote  to  both  the  captain  and  Spruce  and 
kept  her  trunk  packed,  expecting  a  telegram.  Dan- 
vers used  to  talk  of  her  and  of  his  mother  and  of  his 
289 


STORIES    THAT    END   .WELL 

little  nephews  and  nieces  to  Spruce,  at  first  in  mere 
broken  sentences — this  was  when  he  was  so  ill  they 
expected  that  he  might  die  any  day — later  in  little 
happy  snatches  of  reminiscence.  He  was  perfectly 
aware  that  he  owed  his  life  to  Spruce's  nursing;  and 
he  gave  Spruce  the  same  admiration  which  he  had 
used  to  give  the  great  man  who  commanded  the 
university  football  team.  The  social  hiatus  between 
them  closed  up  insensibly,  as  it  always  does  between 
men  who  are  in  danger  and  suffering  together.  Dan- 
vers  knew  Spruce's  footfall  and  his  thin  face  would 
lighten  with  a  smile  whenever  the  sergeant  came  in 
sight.  He  liked  the  strong,  soft  touch  of  his  hand, 
the  soothing  cadence  of  his  voice;  he  felt  a  gratitude 
which  he  was  too  boyish  to  express  for  the  comfort 
of  Spruce's  baths  and  rubbings  and  cheerfulness. 
The  other  sick  lads  had  a  touch  of  the  same  feeling 
for  the  sergeant.  As  he  passed  from  cot  to  cot,  even 
the  sickest  man  could  make  some  little  sign  of  relief 
at  his  return. 

Spruce's  heart,  a  simple  and  tender  affair,  as  a 
soldier's  is,  oftener  than  people  know,  swelled  within 
him,  not  for  the  first  time. 

"Well,  I  guess  I  done  right  to  come  here,"  thought 
290 


THE    HERO    OF    COMPANY    G 

he,  "and  I  guess  all  the  G  boys  will  be  out  of  the 
woods  this  week,  and  then  I  don't  care  how  soon  we 
git  our  orders." 

Danvers  stopped  him  when  he  returned.  "I  want 
to  speak  to  you,  Chris,"  he  next  said,  and  a  new  note 
in  his  voice  turned  Spruce  about  abruptly. 

"What's  the  matter,  Dick?" 

"Oh,  nothing,  I  only  wanted  to  be  sure  you'd 
come  back  and  say  good-by  before  you  got  off.  The 
regiment's  got  its  orders,  you  know?" 

"No!"  cried  Spruce.  He  swallowed  a  little  gasp. 
"What  are  you  giving  me  ?" 

"Oh,  it's  straight ;  I  heard  them  talking.  Colonel 
has  the  order ;  the  boys  are  packing  to-day." 

Spruce's  eyes  burned,  he  was  minded  to  make 
some  exclamations  of  profane  joy,  but  his  mood  fell 
at  the  sight  of  the  boy's  quivering  smile. 

"Great,  isn't  it?"  said  Danvers.  "I  wish  they'd 
waited  two  weeks  and  given  us  fellows  a  show,  but 
I  dare  say  there  won't  be  any  show  by  that  time,  the 
way  they  are  after  the  dons  at  Santiago.  Can't  you 
get  off  now,  to  pack  ?  But — you'll  be  sure  to  come 
back  and  say  good-by,  Chris !" 

"I  ain't  off  yet,"  said  Spruce,  "and  I  ain't  too  sure 
291 


STORIES   THAT    END    WELL 

I  will  be.  They're  always  gitting  orders  and  making 
an  everlasting  hustle  to  pack  up,  and  then  unpack- 
ing. You  go  to  sleep." 

He  was  about  to  move  away,  but  Danvers  detained 
him,  saying  that  he  wanted  to  be  turned ;  and  as  the 
soldier  gently  turned  him,  the  boy  got  one  of  his 
hands  and  gave  it  a  squeeze.  He  tried  to  say  some- 
thing, but  was  barely  able  to  give  Spruce  a  foolish 
smile.  "Spruce,  you're  a  soldier  and  a  gentleman !" 
he  stammered.  He  turned  away  his  head  to  hide  the 
tears  in  his  eyes.  But  Spruce  had  seen  them.  Of 
course  he  made  no  sign,  stepping  away  briskly,  with 
a  little  pat  on  the  lean  shoulder. 

He  came  back  softly  in  a  little  while.  He  looked 
at  Danvers,  who  was  simulating  sleep,  with  his  dark 
lashes  fallen  over  red  eyelids,  and  he  shook  his  head. 
During  his  absence  he  had  found  that  the  orders 
were  no  rumor.  The  regiment  was  going  to  Porto 
Rico  sure  enough.  Spruce  stood  a  moment,  before 
he  sat  down  by  Danvers'  side.  But  he  barely  was 
seated  ere  he  was  on  his  feet  again,  in  a  nervous 
irritation  which  none  had  ever  seen  in  Spruce.  He 
walked  to  the  door  of  the  tent  and  gazed,  in  the  same 
attitude  that  the  nurse  had  gazed,  an  hour  earlier, 
292 


THE    HERO    OF    COMPANY   G 

at  the  low,  white  streets.  Two  great  buzzards  were 
flying  low  against  the  hot,  cloudless  vault  of  blue. 

"Them  boys'll  be  all  broke  up  if  I  go!"  said 
Spruce. 

He  frowned  and  fidgeted.  In  fact,  he  displayed 
every  symptom  of  a  man  struggling  with  a  fit  of 
furious  temper.  What  really  was  buffeting  Spruce's 
soul  was  not,  however,  anger,  it  was  the  temptation 
of  his  life.  Spruce  had  known  few  temptations;  at 
least,  he  had  recognized  few.  His  morality  was  the 
lenient,  rough-hewn  article  which  satisfies  a  soldier's 
conscience.  He  had  no  squeamishness  about  the 
sins  outside  his  limited  category;  he  fell  into  them 
blithely  and  had  no  remorse  when  he  remembered 
them,  wherefore  he  preserved  a  certain  incongruous 
innocence  even  in  his  vices,  as  has  happened  to  many 
a  man  before.  It  is,  perhaps,  the  moral  nature's  own 
defense;  and  keeps  untouched  and  ever  fresh  little 
nooks  and  corners  of  a  sinner's  soul,  into  which  the 
conscience  may  retreat  and  from  which  sometimes 
she  sallies  forth  to  conquer  the  abandoned  territory. 
What  Spruce  called  his  duty  he  had  done  quite  as 
a  matter  of  course.  He  had  not  wavered  any  more 
than  he  wavered  when  the  war  bonnets  were  swooj> 
293 


STORIES    THAT    END   .WELL 

ing  down  on  his  old  captain's  crumpled-up  form. 
But  this — this  was  different.  The  boys  needed  him. 
But  if  he  stayed  with  the  boys,  there  was  the  regi- 
ment and  the  company  and  the  captain  and  the 
chance  to  distinguish  himself  and  march  back  in 
glory  to  his  town. 

"I  guess  most  folks  would  say  I'd  ought  to  follow 
the  colors,"  he  thought;  "raw  fellers  like  them,  they 
need  a  steady,  old  hand.  Well,  they've  got  Bates." 
(Bates  was  an  old  regular,  also,  of  less  enterprising 
genius  than  Spruce,  but  an  admirable  soldier.)  "I 
s'pose," — grudgingly — "that  Bates  would  keep  'em 
steady.  And  captain  can  fight,  and  the  colonel  was 
a  West  Point  man,  though  he's  been  out  of  the  army 
ten  years,  fooling  with  the  millish.  I  guess  they 
don't  need  me  so  awful  bad  this  week ;  and  these  'ere 
boys —  Oh,  damn  it  all !"  He  walked  out  of  the  tent 
There  was  a  little  group  about  a  wagon,  at  which  he 
frowned  and  sighed.  "Poor  Maxwell!"  he  said. 
Then  he  tossed  his  head  and  stamped  his  foot.  "Oh, 
damn  it  all !"  said  he  again,  between  his  teeth. 

But  his  face  and  manner  were  back  on  their  old 
level  of  good  cheer  when  he  bent  over  Danvers,  half 
an  hour  later. 

294 


THE    HERO    OF    COMPANY    G 

"Sa— y!   Dick!" 

"Yes,  Chris.  You  come  to  say  good-by !  Well, 
it's  good  luck  to  you  and  God  bless  you  from  every 
boy  here ;  and  we  know  what  you've  done  for  us,  and 
we  won't  forget  it ;  and  we'll  all  hurry  up  to  get  well 
and  join  you!"  Danvers'  voice  was  steady  enough 
now  and  a  pathetic  effort  at  a  cheer  came  from  all 
the  cots. 

Spruce  lifted  his  fist  and  shook  it  severely.  "You 
shut  up!  All  of  you!  You'll  raise  your  tempera- 
ture !  I  ain't  going,  neither.  Be  quiet.  It's  all  set- 
tled. I've  seen  captain,  and  he  wants  me  to  stay  and 
see  you  boys  through ;  all  the  G  boys.  Then  we're 
all  going  together.  I  tell  you,  keep  quiet." 

Dick  Danvers  was  keeping  quiet  enough,  for  one ; 
he  was  wiping  away  the  tears  that  rolled  down  his 
cheeks. 

The  others  in  general  shared  his  relief  in  greater 
or  less  measure ;  but  they  were  too  ill  to  think  much 
about  anything  except  themselves.  In  some  way, 
however,  every  one  in  the  tent  showed  to  Spruce 
that  he  felt  that  a  sacrifice  had  been  made. 

"I  know  you  hated  it  like  the  devil,  and  just  stayed 
for  fear  some  of  your  precious  chickens  would  come 
295 


STORIES   THAT   END   .WELL 

to  mischief  if  they  got  from  under  your  wings, 
you  old  hen !"  was  Dick's  tribute ;  "and  I  know  why 
you  went  into  town  yesterday  when  the  boys  went 
off.  It  is  rough,  Chris,  and  that's  the  truth !" 

"Oh,  it's  only  putting  things  off  a  bit ;  the  captain 
told  me  so  himself,"  said  Spruce,  very  light  and  airy. 
But  his  heart  was  sore.  The  G  boys  understood ;  he 
wasn't  so  sure  that  all  the  others  did  understand.  He 
caught  his  name  on  one  gossiping  group's  lips,  and 
was  conscious  that  they  gazed  after  him  curiously. 
"Wonder  if  I'm  scared  that  I  stayed  home,  I  guess," 
he  muttered,  being  a  sensitive  fellow  like  all  vain 
men.  "I  wish  they'd  see  the  things  I've  been  in! 
Damn  'em!" 

The  men  really  were  discussing  his  various  Indian 
experiences  and  admiring  him  in  their  boyish  hearts. 
But  he  was  unluckily  out  of  earshot.  Unluckily,  also, 
he  was  not  out  of  earshot  when  a  lieutenant  of  an- 
other regiment  who  had  had  a  difference  about  a 
right  of  way  with  Spruce's  captain  and  been  worsted 
by  Spruce's  knowledge  of  military  traditions  freed 
his  mind  about  that  "bumptious  regular  who  was  so 
keen  to  fight,  but  (he  noticed)  was  hanging  on  to  his 
sick  detail,  now  the  regiment  had  a  chance  to  see  a 
296 


THE   HERO    OF   COMPANY   G 

few  Spaniards."  Spruce,  in  his  properly  buttoned 
uniform,  his  face  red  with  the  heat  and  something  of 
the  words,  saluted  rigorously  and  passed  by,  not  a 
single  muscle  twitching.  All  the  while  he  was 
thinking:  "I'm  glad  he  don't  belong  to  my  town! 
God!  If  anybody  was  to  write  them  things  about 
me!" 

By  this  time  the  town  was  not  only  his  town,  but 
he  was  sure  that  he  was  a  figure  in  the  conversation 
of  the  place.  Thus  his  anxiety  of  mind  increased 
daily.  He  kept  it  from  his  charges,  who  grew 
stronger  all  the  week,  and  the  next ;  and  he  read  such 
papers  as  drifted  out  to  the  camp  and  such  shreds  of 
news  about  the  fighting  with  frantic  interest.  Dan- 
vers  was  able  to  sit  up  at  the  end  of  three  weeks,  but 
most  of  the  boys  were  further  along,  walking  about 
the  wards,  or  gone  back  to  their  regiment. 

"You  get  out,  Chris,"  said  Danvers,  "we  all  know 
you're  on  your  head  with  aching  to  go.  We're  all 
right;  and  I'm  off  home  on  furlough  to-morrow; 
I'll  get  straightened  out  there  quicker,  and  I'll  be 
after  you  next  week,  see  if  I  don't !  I  knew  you'd 
be  hanging  on,  so  I  won't  give  you  the  excuse.  My 
sister's  coming  to-morrow." 
297 


STORIES   THAT    END   WELL 

"Really,  Dick,"  gasped  Spruce,  "and  you — you're 
sure  the  other  boys  are  so's  I  can  leave?" 

"Well,  you  know  there  are  going  to  be  some 
women  from  the  Red  Cross,  last  of  the  week — Oh, 
by  the  time  we  are  all  out  of  it,  this  will  be  a  swell 
hospital,  with  all  the  luxuries!  Spruce,  go,  and 
don't  get  hurt,  or  I'll  murder  you !" 

Spruce  giggled  like  a  happy  girl.  He  was  on  his 
way  to  put  in  his  application  to  join  his  regiment  the 
next  day — after  Dick  Danvers'  sister  had  arrived, 
when  something  happened.  He  did  not  exactly 
know  what  it  was  himself,  until  he  felt  the  water  on 
his  forehead  and  tried  to  lift  himself  up  from  the 
sand,  catching  the  arm  of  the  surgeon-in-chief. 
"Sunstroke,  doctor?"  he  whispered. 

"Just  fainted,"  the  surgeon  answered  cheerfully, 
"you've  been  overdoing  it  in  this  heat.  Be  careful." 

"Oh,  it's  nothing,  sir,"  Spruce  grinned  back;  "had 
it  lots  of  times,  only  not  so  bad.  All  the  boys  git 
giddy  heads — " 

Somehow  the  ready  words  faltered  off  his  tongue ; 
the  surgeon  had  been  fumbling  at  his  blouse,  under 
the  pretext  of  opening  it  for  air,  he  was  looking  in 
a  queer,  intent  way  at  Spruce's  chest. 
298 


THE   HERO    OF    COMPANY   G 

Of  a  sudden  the  eyes  of  doctor  and  soldier,  who 
had  been  nurse,  met  and  challenged  each  other. 
There  was  a  dumb  terror  in  the  soldier's  eyes,  a 
grave  pity  in  the  surgeon's.  "I  seen  them  spots  yes- 
terday," said  Spruce,  slowly,  in  a  toneless  voice,  "but 
I  wouldn't  believe  they  was  typhoid  spots,  nor  they 
ain't!" 

"You  get  inside  and  get  a  drink,  Spruce,  and  go 
to  bed,"  said  the  doctor.  "Of  course,  I'm  not  cer- 
tain, but  as  good  a  nurse  as  you  knows  that  it  isn't 
safe  to  try  to  bluff  typhoid  fever." 

By  this  time  Spruce  was  on  his  feet,  able  to  salute 
with  his  reply :  "That's  all  right,  Major,  but — I  got 
to  keep  up  till  Danvers  gits  off  with  his  folks,  or 
he'd  be  kicking  and  want  to  stay.  Jest  let  me  see 
him  off,  and  I'll  go  straight  to  bed." 

"No  walking  about,  mind,  though,"  said  the  doc- 
tor, not  well  pleased,  yet  knowing  enough  of  the  two 
men  to  perceive  the  point  of  the  argument. 

Spruce  saw  Danvers  off,  with  a  joke  and  a  grin, 
and  an  awkward  bow  for  Danvers'  sister.  Then  he 
went  back  to  the  hospital  and  went  to  bed,  having 
written  his  aunt's  address  on  a  prescription  pad  (one 
of  his  acquirements  in  his  foraging  trips)  with  a 
299 


STORIES   THAT   END   WELL 

remarkably  spelled  request  that  his  pay  be  sent  her, 
and  his  other  property  be  given  his  friend,  R.  E. 
Danvers,  to  divide  among  his  friends,  giving  the 
captain  first  choice. 

"Lots  of  folks  die  of  typhoid  fever,"  he  remarked 
quite  easily,  "and  it  don't  hurt  to  be  ready.  I  feel 
like  I  was  in  for  a  bad  time,  and  I  ain't  stuck  on  the 
nursing  here  a  little  bit." 

Before  the  week  was  out  he  recognized  as  well  as 
the  doctors  that  he  was  a  very  sick  man. 

"If  you'd  only  gone  off  with  your  regiment  three 
weeks  ago,"  the  doctor  growled  one  day,  "you'd 
have  missed  this,  Spruce." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Spruce,  "but  some  of  the 
boys  are  home  that  wouldn't  be,  maybe.  I  guess  it's 
all  right.  Only,  you  know  captain  and  Danvers;  I 
wish  you'd  write  back  to  the  old  town  and  tell 
the  committee  I  done  my  duty.  I  can't  be  a  credit 
to  the  company,  but  I  done  my  duty,  though  I  ex- 
pect there's  folks  in  town  may  think  I  was  malinger- 
ing." 

"Stop  talking!"  commanded  the  doctor.    "Did 
you  know  the  women  are  coming  to-morrow;  you 
are  to  have  a  nurse  of  your  own  here?" 
300 


THE    HERO    OF    COMPANY   G 

"Time,"  said  Spruce;  "if  my  town  had  its  way 
they'd  been  here  long  ago.  Eve.r  been  in  my  town, 
Major?" 

"No.    Good-by,  Spruce ;  keep  quiet." 

"It's  the  bulliest  town  in  the  country,  and  the  pret- 
tiest. And  when  G  company  goes  back — Oh,  Lord, 
I  won't  be  with  'em !" 

The  surgeon's  hand  on  his  shoulder  prevented  the 
movement  which  he  would  have  made,  and  he  apol- 
ogized ;  "I  didn't  mean  to  do  that !  Moving's  so  bad. 
Tell  you,  I'd  a  time  keeping  the  boys  still ;  they  would 
turn  when  they  got  a  little  off.  Say,  I  got  to  talk, 
Major,  something's  broke  loose  in  me  and  I  got  to 
talk.  I  don't  want  to,  I  just  got  to." 

When  the  nurse  came  he  was  so  light-headed  as 
to  have  no  control  of  his  words,  yet  quite  able  to 
recognize  her  and  welcome  her  with  an  apologetic 
politeness. 

"I'd  have  had  some  lemonade  for  you  if  I'd  been 
up  myself,  ma'am.  We're  glad  to  see  you.  All  the 
G  boys  are  convalescing;  most  of  'em's  gone.  We 
all  come  from  the  same  city;  it's  an  awful  pretty 
town.  I  got  a  lot  of  friends  there  that  maybe  don't 
take  it  in  why  I'm  here  'stead  of  with  my  regiment, 
301 


STORIES    THAT    END    .WELL 

with  the  old  man.    I  got  a  good  reason ;  only  I  can't 
remember  it  now." 

The  captain's  father  stood  outside  the  telegraph 
office  in  Spruce's  town.  Beside  him  was  the  chair- 
man of  the  relief  committee. 

"Too  bad  about  that  regular,"  said  the  chairman. 
"Spruce — isn't  that  his  name?  One  of  the  boys 
telegraphed  he  couldn't  live  through  the  day.  Better 
have  him  brought  here  for  the  funeral,  I  guess ;  he's 
been  very  faithful.  Young  Danvers  wanted  to  go 
right  down  to  Florida ;  but  he  had  a  relapse  after  he 
got  home  and  he's  flat  on  his  back." 

"I  heard,"  said  the  captain's  father;  "I've  just 
telegraphed,  on  my  own  responsibility,  for  them  to 
send  him  here.  It  won't  make  any  difference  to  him, 
poor  fellow ;  but  we  owe  it  to  him.  I  wish  we  could 
do  something  that  would  help  him,  but  I  don't  see 
anything." 

"We  have  told  them  to  spare  no  expense,  and  he's 
'got  plenty  of  money.  No,  you  have  done  everything. 
Well,  good-by ;  remember  me  to  the  captain ;  we're 
all  proud  of  him." 

The  captain's  father  thanked  him  with  rather  an 
302 


THE   HERO    OF   COMPANY   G 

absent  air.  "I  wish  we  could  do  something  for  that 
fellow,"  he  was  thinking;  "I  don't  suppose  a  mes- 
sage to  him  would — when  a  fellow's  dying,  mes- 
sages are  nonsense — it's  a  bit  of  sentiment — I  don't 
care,  I'll  do  it !"  He  turned  and  went  back  into  the 
office. 

"I  am  afraid  there  is  not  a  chance,"  said  the  doc- 
tor ;  "too  bad,  he  was  a  good  fellow.  Well,  you  can 
give  him  all  the  morphine  he  needs — and  strychnine, 
though  he's  past  strychnine,  I  fear;  morphine's  the 
one  chance,  and  that's  mighty  little." 

"He  talked  about  wanting  to  see  you,"  said  the 
nurse.  She  had  a  sweet  voice,  plainly  a  lady's  voice ; 
and  her  slim  figure,  in  the  blue-striped  gown  and 
white  surplice,  had  a  lady's  grace.  Her  face  was 
not  handsome,  nor  was  it  very  young,  but  it  had  a 
touch  of  her  voice's  sweetness.  The  doctor  found 
himself  glad  to  look  at  her;  and  forgetting  his  pa- 
tients in  his  interest  in  the  nurse. 

"Oh,  yes,"— he  roused  himself— "I'll  look  'round 
later;  I  suppose  he  is  delirious?" 

"Not  so  much  that  he  does  not  recognize  us.  He 
talks  all  the  time  of  his  town,  poor  fellow,  and  seems 
303 


STORIES    THAT   END   WELL 

to  want  to  have  them  understand  that  he  hasn't  neg- 
lected his  duty.  He  only  once  has  spoken  of  any 
relations.  It's  all  the  town,  and  the  captain  and 
Danvers  making  it  right  there ;  and  the  boys  going 
back — I  suppose  he  has  lived  there  all  his  life  and — " 

"Not  a  bit  of  it;  Danvers  told  me  he  merely  en- 
listed from  there.  But  they  are  making  a  great  time 
over  him.  Telegraphed  to  have  his  body  sent  there ; 
and  here's  another  telegram.  See — " 

"I'll  let  him  see,"  said  the  nurse,  taking  it,  "may  I, 
Doctor?" 

"Yes,  but  not  the  first  part  about  sending  him 
back ;  that's  a  little  too  previous." 

The  nurse's  touch  roused  Spruce.  "Dick,"  he 
murmured,  "Dick,  you  tell  the  folks.  I  couldn't  go 
with  the  regiment — you  know  why." 

"Theyj  know  why,  too;  here's  a  telegram  from 
your  captain's  father:  'Tell  Spruce  he's  the  hero  of 
Company  G.'  " 

"Read  it  again!" 

She  read  it.  His  hand  tightened  on  hers.  Her 
trained  eyes  were  on  his  face. 

"Ain't  it  the— the  bulliest  town!     I  wisht  I'd 
enough  money  to  go  back ;  but  you  see  my  folks  got 
to  have  my  pay.  But  I  wisht — " 
304 


THE    HERO    OF    COMPANY   G 

Her  eyes,  not  the  nurse's  now,  but  a  woman's, 
sought  the  doctor's  in  a  glance  of  question  and  ap- 
peal. He  nodded. 

Her  sweet  voice  said:  "And  the  town  has  tele- 
graphed that  no  expense  must  be  spared  to  cure  you ; 
but  if  you  don't  recover  you  are  to  go  back  to  them." 

Spruce  drew  a  long,  ecstatic  sigh.  "Oh — didn't 
I  tell  you  ?  Ain't  it  the  bulliest  town !" 

A  minute  later  he  murmured,  "Thank  you,  Dick," 
and,  still  holding  the  nurse's  hand,  Spruce  went  to 
see  his  town. 


305 


A  MIRACLE  PLAY 

THE  widow  Darter's  house  was  set  on  a  hill.  It 
was  a  story-and-a-half  cottage,  of  stucco,  to 
which  sun  and  wind  and  frost  had  offered  their  kind 
offices,  mellowing  pleasantly  its  original  glare  of 
white.  In  summer  a  trumpet-vine  draped  the  ugly 
little  piazza  which  Emmy's  "art-needle  work"  had 
helped  build,  and  which  she  and  her  mother  ad- 
mired with  simple  hearts.  The  big  burr  oak  and  the 
maples  hid  the  house  from  the  road,  but  the  grassy 
knoll  in  front  of  the  house  was  bare,  and  from  this 
vantage-ground  one  could  see  the  shallow  curve  of 
whitish-brown  where  the  village  street  climbed  the 
hill,  the  chimneys  of  the  houses  below,  and,  afar  off, 
the  trains  roaring  through  the  prairies.  All  the  vil- 
lage was  interested  in  the  railway,  but  Emmy  had 
an  especial  and  intimate  interest  because  her  sweet- 
heart was  the  local  agent.  He  had  been  her  sweet- 
heart during  five  years,  in  any  one  of  which  he 
would  have  been  proud  and  glad  to  marry  her;  yet 
306 


A    MIRACLE   PLAY 

this  was  the  fifth  year  of  their  betrothal,  and  Emmy 
was  drearily  reflecting  that  they  were  no  nearer  the 
chance  to  spend  their  lives  together  the  fifth  than 
the  first. 

Emmy  was  hanging  out  clothes.  It  was  four 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  but  she  had  just  brought 
out  the  large  basket  and  was  pinning  the  garments 
to  the  line,  while  Virginia,  her  sister,  a  little  girl  in 
short  skirts  and  a  blue  checked  apron,  helped  with 
the  less  cumbrous  stockings  and  handkerchiefs.  The 
child  was  pretty.  She  had  a  fresh  color  and  curly 
yellow  hair.  Emmy's  hair  was  black,  and  twisted  in 
a  braid  about  a  shapely  head.  It  shone  like  silk.  But 
her  eyes  were  gray,  soft,  and  liquid.  She  was  slen- 
der, with  a  youthful  litheness  in  her  motions,  and 
her  white  arms  flashed  as  they  moved  backward  and 
forward  in  her  work.  The  sleeves  of  her  blue  gown 
were  rolled  up;  the  gown  itself  was  plainly  her  work- 
a-day  garb,  but  there  was  a  white  lawn  tie  at  her 
neck  and  the  gown  was  both  neat  and  becoming ;  in 
short,  she  was  an  attractive  little  creature  who  did 
not  neglect  her  looks  even  of  a  wash-day. 

The  widow  Darter  sat  on  the  piazza  in  a  large 
rocking-chair.  She  rocked.  As  she  rocked,  she 
307 


STORIES   THAT   END   WELL 

moaned  piteously.  At  intervals  she  changed  the  sibi- 
lant moan  into  a  hollow  groaning  sound.  "Oh  dear  f 
Oh  dear!  Oh  dear,  oh  dear,  oh  dear!"  wailed  the 
widow.  "Um-m!  um-m!  um-m-m-m!" 

The  little  girl  flung  a  frown  of  impatience  over 
her  shoulder.  "I  don't  see  why  mamma  makes  such 
an  awful  racket !"  she  snapped. 

"She  suffers,"  said  Emmy. 

"Well,  she  needn't  holler  so  if  she  does,"  cried 
Virginia,  rebelliously.  "I  know  she  wouldn't  let  me 
holler  when  I  stubbed  my  toe.  It  hurt  awful,  too!" 

Emmy  said  nothing. 

"Say,  are  you  going  to  the  picnic  with  Bert  to- 
morrow afternoon?"  said  the  child. 

"No,  Jinny,  I  don't  see  how  I  can.  Mother's  so 
sick." 

"Well,  I  told  Bert  I  was  willing  to  take  care  of 
mamma;  and  he  said  he'd  buy  me  a  new  doll  if  I 
would.  I  guess  he  wants  you  to  go  awful." 

"Oh-h  dear!  Oh-h  dear!"  droned  the  sufferer  on 
the  piazza. 

"Well,  I  can't,"  said  Emmy.  "I  wish  you'd  run 
and  ask  mother  if  she  wants  anything." 

"She  don't ;  she's  been  going  on  that  way  all  the 
308 


A   MIRACLE   PLAY 

afternoon."  But  Jinny  granted  the  request  after  the 
easy-going  manner  of  her  age;  she  turned  on  her 
heel  and  sent  a  shout  at  her  mother — "Say,  mamma ! 
you  want  anything?" 

Mrs.  Darter  shook  her  head.    The  din  of  woe 
swelled  in  volume. 

"I  s'pose  she  wants  you  to  read  to  her;  she  says  I 
don't  read  with  expression,"  said  the  little  girl. 
"But  we're  all  read  out ;  you  put  off  the  washing  to 
read  the  end  of  A  Romance  of  Two  Worlds,  and 
we've  got  to  wait  until  No.  9  comes  in !  Albert  said 
he'd  sent  for  a  whooping  big  pile  of  books  from 
Davenport ;  you  can  get  'em  at  the  dry-goods  stores 
for  five  cents  a  book.  And  Mrs.  Conner'll  bring 
them  up,  won't  she,  when  she  comes?  She's  got  to 
go  for  her  boarder."  Emmy  nodded.  Mrs.  Darter 
groaned  more  softly,  a  sign  that  she  was  distracted 
by  something  from  her  own  griefs  of  mind  or  body. 
Jinny  chattered  on.  "Miss  Ann  Bigelow  told  me 
Mrs.  Conner's  going  to  have  a  girl  from  the  Uni- 
versity of  Chicago  for  a  boarder  this  time,  but  she's 
only  coming  for  a  week.  Sibyl  Edmunds  knows  her 
well.  And,  Emmy,  she  takes  pictures,  and  she's  go- 
ing to  bring  her  camera." 
309 


STORIES   THAT    END    WELL 

"Emmy!  Emmy!  there  comes  Mrs.  Conner!" 
screamed  her  mother. 

Her  words  were  accompanied  by  the  vision  of  a 
white  horse  and  an  ancient  phaeton  (which  had  been 
newly  washed  for  the  occasion)  just  beyond  the 
lilac-bushes  at  the  gate.  Mrs.  Conner's  comely  pres- 
ence filled  the  better  part  of  the  seat,  but  the  eyes  of 
all  the  Darters  traveled  at  once  to  the  slim  girl  in 
gray  covert-cloth  who  sat  beside  her.  The  girl 
looked  like  hundreds  of  rather  pretty  American  girls, 
with  gray  eyes  and  brown  hair  and  dimples  in  their 
cheeks.  She  was  pretty  as  youth  and  cheerfulness 
and  dainty  clothes  are  always  pretty,  but  Emmy's 
gaze  dwelt  on  her  with  reverence.  "That's  a  camera 
she's  holding — in  that  box,"  she  said  in  a  low  tone 
to  Jinny,  "she's  the  girl  that  got  the  scholarship." 
Emmy  sighed. 

Mrs.  Conner  had  stopped  the  horse.  She  re- 
sponded to  Emmy's  greeting  by  presenting  her  to 
the  girl  in  gray.  "Miss  Doris  Keith ;  she's  going  to 
the  Chicago  University.  She  knows  Sibyl."  Then 
she  fished  out  a  package  from  the  luggage  heaped 
at  their  feet.  "Here's  the  books.  That  your  ma  on 
the  piazza?" 

310 


A    MIRACLE   PLAY 

As  if  in  response,  a  few  hollow  moans  floated 
from  the  rocking-chair. 

"She  seems  in  great  pain,"  said  Miss  Keith,  sym- 
pathetically. 

Emmy's  fair  skin  reddened  painfully.  "No,  she — 
she  isn't  well,"  she  stammered. 

Mrs.  Conner  coughed  a  dry,  inexpressive  cough. 

"I  do  wish  you  would  step  in  and  see  mother  for 
a  minute,"  Emmy  begged,  as  much  with  her  eyes  as 
with  her  voice.  "I  can  hitch  the  horse  if  Miss  Keith 
minds — " 

But  Miss  Keith  did  not  mind ;  she  was  quite  will- 
ing to  hold  the  horse.  And  the  horse  sagging  his  el- 
derly head,  appeared  of  no  mind  to  move,  whether 
"held"  or  no. 

"Well?"  said  Mrs.  Conner,  when  they  were  out 
of  earshot. 

"Mother  thinks  she  is  threatened  with  pleurisy, 
and  she  is  trying  the  starvation  cure,"  answered 
Emmy.  "She  hasn't  eaten  a  bite  since  yesterday.  I'm 
ashamed  to  be  so  late  about  my  washing,  but  I've 
been  cooking  things  all  day,  trying  to  tempt  her — 

"Oh  dear!  Oh  dear!  Oh  dear!"  moaned  the  fig- 
ure on  the  piazza.. 


STORIES   THAT   END    WELL 

Mrs.  Conner  put  her  arms  akimbo.  She  looked 
steadfastly  at  the  swaying  and  moaning  shape.  Mrs. 
Conner  was  a  woman  who  had  been  known  to  fry 
fresh  griddle-cakes  for  tramps.  She  drew  in  her 
breath  and  exhaled  it  explosively,  as  one  that  has 
been  shocked  out  of  speech. 

"I've  made  her  postum  cereal  coffee  and  cooked 
her  granum,  and  I  went  out  and  begged  dewberries 
from  the  Bigelows — she  used  to  be  fond  of  them — 
and  I  don't  know  how  many  times  I've  made  toast. 
She  says  I  just  torment  her." 

"Won't  she  drink  a  little  beef  tea?" 

"Oh-h!  Oh-h!  U-r-r-r!  Ug-h-h-h!"  shuddered 
the  invalid. 

"Didn't  you  know  she  thinks  meat  wicked?  And 
milk's  robbing  the  cow,  and  eggs  robbing  the  hen, 
who  wants  to  have  a  family  as  much  as  we  do," 
said  Emily,  rather  incorrectly. 

"More'n  some  of  us  do,  I  guess,"  retorted  Mrs. 
Conner,  "and  more'n  folks  ought  to  ii  they  ain't 
prepared  to  do  their  duty  by  them  when  they've  got 
'em."  She  launched  a  fiery  glance  at  Mrs.  Darter, 
who  was  now  groaning  vehemently.  "Got  it  all 
turned  on  this  afternoon,  ain't  she?" 
312 


A    MIRACLE   PLAY 

"Dr.  Abbie  Cruller  told  her  that  it  wasn't  natural 
to  suppress  ourselves.  If  you  feel  like  groaning  you 
ought  to  groan — " 

"And  she  eats  sech  queer  stuff  she's  hungry  most 
of  the  time,"  Mrs.  Conner  interrupted,  "so  I  expect 
she  groans  a  lot.  Say,  Emmy,  have  you  ever  had 
anybody  come  in  and  give  your  ma  a  good  hard — 
blowing  up?" 

The  blood  rushed  to  Emmy's  face ;  her  eyes  sank. 
She  answered,  in  a  confused  tone:  "Aunt  Lida 
Glenn  was  over  yesterday.  I  don't  know  what  she 
said  to  mother,  but  mother — mother  told  me  the  one 
thing  she  wanted  on  earth  was  to  have  me — send 
Albert  away  and  have  everything  ended  between  us, 
for  she  never  was  so  insulted  in  her  life  as  she  had 
been  by  Albert's  mother." 

"Albert's  mother  ain't  Albert;  though  I  don't 
blame  her,  Emmy,  and  Mrs.  Glenn  is  a  awful  nice 
woman.  But  it  ain't  fair  to  hold  Albert  for  her  opin- 
ions, right  or  wrong.  As  I  said,  she  ain't  Albert,  nor 
Albert  ain't  her." 

"So  I  told  mother,"  said  Emmy.  "I  did  hate  to 
be  disrespectful  to  her,  but  I  told  her  so;  and  she 
answered  that  Mrs.  Glenn  said  Albert  thought  so 
313 


STORIES    THAT    END    WELL 

too.  Then  when  I  tried  to  question  her  she  was  in 
so  much  pain  and  groaned  so  I  hadn't  the  heart  to 
bother  her.  She  let  me  put  hot  cloths  on  her,  and 
give  her  a  Turkish  bath  over  the  alcohol-lamp ;  and 
I  hoped  she'd  let  me  make  her  some  water  gruel,  but 
she  wouldn't  touch  a  spoonful.  Mrs.  Conner,  you 
don't  suppose  she — she  will  keep  it  up  much  longer?" 
Emmy's  eyes  dilated  with  an  unspoken  fear  as  she 
lifted  them  to  the  kind  woman  before  her.  "She 
said  she  felt  herself  growing  weaker  this  morning. 
I — I  told  her  I  wouldn't  go  to  the  picnic  with  Bert, 
if  she  would  only  eat  something.  But  she  said  that 
she  couldn't  eat  anything.  One  time — one  time  she 
went  three  days.  I  didn't  let  the  neighbors  know; 
but  I  was  'most  crazy,  and  poor  little  Jinny  cried. 
She  isn't  one  to  cry,  either." 

"No,"  Mrs.  Conner  agreed,  glancing  at  Jinny  who 
was  chattering  volubly  with  the  girl  in  the  phaeton 
— "no,  I'd  say  she'd  be  more  likely  to  be  sassy." 

"I'm  afraid  she  was  that,  too,"  suggested  Emmy, 
with  a  dim  smile,  "but  at  last  she  got  scared.  It  was 
some  new  books  Bert  brought,  got  mother  out  of 
that  time ;  she  was  so  anxious  to  read  them." 

"Yes,  I  know  your  ma's  a  great  reader.    Always 


A    MIRACLE   PLAY 

was.  She  told  me  she  fairly  revelled  in  stories  of 
high  life  and  detective  stories.  She  said  she'd  read 
every  one  of  The  Duchess's  books — I  guess  'twas 
a  hundred.  And  she  said  many  and  many  a  night 
she'd  set  up  in  bed  reading  half  the  night.  'It's  so 
resting,'  she  says,  'to  read  'bout  murders  and  how 
they  are  tracked  down.'  It  took  up  her  mind  from 
her  sorrers,  she  says.  And  she  told  me  she  didn't 
know  how  she'd  ever  lived  through  losing  your  pa 
but  for  Sherlock  Holmes.  If  I  was  you  I'd  jest  try 
to  stir  her  up  with  these  books.  I'll  fetch  'em  to  her. 
I  read  the  one  of  Ouida's  and  it's  real  good — and, 
come  to  think  of  it,  brimful  of  eating.  Who  knows 
but  it'll  git  her  to  wanting  to  eat  herself.  Why, 
when  I  think  what  kind  of  cook  she  was,  it  don't 
seem  possible!  But  now  don't  you  worry,  Emmy; 
she'll  come  all  right  and  she'll  come  all  right  'bout 
Mrs.  Glenn,  good  friends  as  they've  always  been. 
Why,  she  always  has  liked  Lida  Glenn  better  than  all 
her  other  friends  together !  She'll  have  to  make  up. 
Don't  you  fret  a  bit."  She  said  the  words  in  a 
hearty  voice,  and  she  strode  vigorously  across  the 
grass  to  the  piazza  and  presented  her  package  with 
a  breezy  cheer.  "Here's  two  new  books  by  Ouida, 


STORIES   THAT    END   WELL 

and  one  by  Bertha  M.  Clay,  and  two  by  Maria  Cor- 
elly,  Mrs.  Darter;  and  Emmy'll  be  ready  to  read 
them  to  you  soon." 

Mrs.  Darter  had  a  delicate  pale  face,  much  like 
Emmy's  in  features,  but  etched  with  tiny  wrinkles. 
The  corners  of  her' mouth  dropped,  and  there  was  a 
habitual  frown  of  pain  on  her  pretty  forehead.  She 
did  not  look  ungentle,  only  obstinate. 

"Thank  you,"  she  murmured.  Then  she  sighed. 

Mrs.  Conner  opened  her  mouth,  and  shut  it  again, 
compressing  the  lips  with  unnecessary  firmness. 

Mrs.  Darter  laid  her  head  back  on  her  chair.  She 
closed  her  eyes.  A  plaintive,  sibilant  noise  hissed 
through  her  parted  lips. 

"Well,  I'm  real  sorry  you're  sick,"  said  Mrs.  Con- 
nor, her  voice  again  full  of  good-nature.  "I  guess 
what  you  need  is  a  little  nourishing  food — 

Mrs.  Darter  screamed,  and  Mrs.  Conner^  stood 
aghast.  She  was  more  aghast  to  behold  all  the  ap- 
parent symptoms  of  a  swoon  in  the  invalid,  and 
would  have  run  for  water — an  act,  however,  pre- 
vented by  the  timely  opening  of  Mrs.  Darter's  eyes. 
"Don't  say  the  word !"  she  begged,  shuddering.  "I 
have  to  starve  off  a  pleurisy.  It  would  kill  me !  And 


A    MIRACLE   PLAY 

the  books  are  no  good ;  I'm  too  sick  to  hear  reading. 
Oh  dear!  Oh  dear!  Oh  dear!" 

Mrs.  Conner  backed  off  the  piazza — she  said  she 
guessed  she  must  go — and  left  Mrs.  Darter  moan- 
ing and  rocking. 

"And  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Miss  Keith" — thus  she 
ended  a  breathless  narration  to  her  new  boarder — 
"I  went  quick,  for  I  knew  I  couldn't  hold  in  one 
minnit  longer!  And  how'd  it  help  poor  Emmy  to 
have  her  mother  quarrel  with  Lida  Glenn  and  me 
the  same  day  ?  There's  Susy  Baker  making  eyes  at 
Albert  Glenn,  this  minnit;  and  if  she  ain't  carrying 
Mrs.  Glenn  some  of  her  ma's  blueberry  cake!  Right 
by  the  Darters,  too ;  and  Emmy  seeing  her !" 

"What  is  the  matter  with  Mrs.  Darter?" 

"Well,  old  Dr.  Potter  says  she's  'neurotic/  if  you 
know  what  that  is.  I  call  it  jest  notions.  What  the 
doctors  in  my  time  called  a  hypo,  that's  what  she  is ! 
She's  always  been  the  greatest  hand  to  dose.  Mr. 
Conner  will  have  it  she  kep'  old  Captain  Darter  poor 
buying  patent  medicines.  And  she  run  after  every 
new  cure-all  going.  It  was  electricity  one  year,  and 
'nother  year  it  was  blue  glass,  and  one  time  I  re- 
member she  had  a  woman  come  of  the  sort  that  used 
317 


STORIES    THAT    END   WELU 

to  call  themselves  bone-doctors  when  I  was  a  girl 
and  this  country  wasn't  much  settled,  but  now 
they're  osteologists,  or  some  sech  funny  name,  and 
give  out  they  can  rub  everything  on  earth  out  of  you. 
Mrs.  Darter  had  her  for  a  long  spell,  till  she  got 
pneumonia,  and  nigh  died,  and  sickened  of  the  oste- 
ologist ;  and  I  give  her  mustard  plasters,  good  strong 
ones,  myself.  All  this  time  Emmy  was  engaged  to 
Albert  Glenn;  but  the  old  captain  was  real  feeble, 
and  Emmy  wouldn't  leave  him  to  git  married.  I  will 
say  Mrs.  Darter  was  real  devoted  to  him,  though 
Emmy  done  all  the  night  work  and  spared  her  all 
she  could,  give  up  her  school,  and  spent  every  cent 
of  the  money  she'd  laid  by  school-teaching  and 
working  art  embroidery  for  her  clothes,  when  she'd 
be  married — spent  every  cent  on  her  pa.  Got  him  a 
wheel  chair,  and  if  ever  a  man  set  the  world  by  his 
daughter  the  captain  done  it.  He  liked  Albert,  too. 
I  guess  if  captain  had  lived,  sick's  he  was,  he'd  have 
found  a  way  so's  Emmy  and  Albert  could  git  mar- 
ried. But  he  died.  Then  you'd  'a'  s'posed  they  could 
marry,  for  his  life  was  ivcll  insured,  and  they  got 
enough  for  the  widder  to  be  comfortable  and  keep 
a  girl.  But  the  minnit  he  died  poor  Mrs.  Darter  got 


A    MIRACLE   PLAY 

nervous  prostration,  and  she  was  a  nervous  prostrate 
for  a  year,  and  they  had  to  spend  money  traveling, 
and  of  course  Emmy  couldn't  git  married.  Mrs. 
Darter  went  to  Hot  Springs,  Arkansas,  and  she  went 
to  a  sanitarium,  and  last  she  come  home  saying  she 
was  cured.  But  on  the  cars  she  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  a  woman — well,  I  don't  want  to  jedge — 
jedge  not,  and  you  won't  git  jedged,  you  know — and 
I  know  'tis  hard  for  a  woman  to  make  a  living,  but 
I  guess  that  woman  was  a  crank,  and  a  designing 
one  at  that.  But  she  went  to  Mrs.  Darter's  to  board, 
and  she  never  paid  no  board,  but  she  preached  to 
Mrs.  Darter  'bout  how  all  the  diseases  that  we  have 
come  from  eating  wrong  things ;  and  she  said  we'd 
got  to  live  'cording  to  nature  more ;  and  eating  meat 
made  folks  fierce  like  the  carnivorous  beasts,  and 
things  seasoned  with  salt  was  bad  for  you,  and  jest 
plain  farnishous  foods  without  salt — like  we  was 
chickens! — was  best  for  us.  I  don't  see  how  Mrs. 
Darter,  who  used  to  cook  real  well  and  liked  to  have 
the  sewing  society  to  tea,  could  stand  sech  sick  stuff, 
but  she  did;  and  what's  wuss,  even  after  the  fool 
critter  ran  away  and  married  a  magnetic  healer  who, 
they  do  say,  has  another  wife,  even  to  this  day  Abiel 
319 


STORIES    THAT    END   WELL 

Darter  believes  in  her  and  goes  by  what  she  says. 
And  she  ain't  et  any  fit  food  for  so  long  that  if  she 
ever  does  git  coaxed  to  take  a  wholesome  bite  of 
beef  or  pie  her  stummick  is  so  weak  of  course  she 
cayn't  stand  it.  Strong  folks  can  eat  strong  vituals, 
and  weak  folks  cayn't.  Mrs.  Glenn  coaxed  her  in 
to  a  boiled  dinner  one  day,  and  poor  Mrs.  Darter 
nearly  died  of  it.  Now  you  cayn't  git  her  to  budge 
from  her  grass  and  potato  diet,  as  Conner  calls  it. 
And  as  for  poor  Emmy,  when  she  can  git  married 
Lord  only  knows !" 

Miss  Keith  had  not  interrupted  the  story  by  as 
much  as  a  hum  of  assent.  She  looked  up  with  a 
queer  smile.  "Has  Mrs.  Darter  ever  tried  Christian 
Science?" 

"No,  she  ain't,"  snorted  Mrs.  Conner;  "we've 
been  spared  that.  The  Bigelow  girls — they're  two 
single  ladies,  real  nice  girls,  too,  who  live  in  that 
big  brown  house  with  a  cupola  and  a  hip-roof  there, 
'bout  two  doors  up — they  tried  to  get  her  into  that 
way  of  thinking;  they're  at  everybody.  And  they 
used  to  go  over  and  set  with  her  and  give  her  'silent 
treatment,'  they  called  it,  and  try  to  think  the  dys- 
pepsia out  of  her;  but  one  of  'em  got  a  fish-bone  in 
320 


A    MIRACLE    PLAY 

her  throat  and  they  had  to  come  to  me  to  pull  it  out 
with  a  pair  of  tweezers.  That  sorter  dampened  'em 
for  a  while  and  Mrs.  Darter  says,  'Why  didn't  you 
think  it  out?'  And  then  Ann — she's  the  oldest — 
says  they  wasn't  far  enough  advanced  yet,  Mrs.  Dar- 
ter told  'em  then  they  wasn't  far  enough  advanced 
to  doctor  her.  And  I  guess  they  ain't  been  there 
sense." 

"All  the  same,"  insisted  Miss  Keith,  smiling,  "I 
think  Mrs.  Darter  needs  mental  healing  or  Christian 
Science,  I  don't  care  which." 

Emmy  put  her  mother  to  bed.  She  gave  her  the 
soothing  drops  which  the  vanished  but  still  rever- 
enced healer  had  left — drops  which  she  was  almost 
certain  owed  their  potency  to  some  alias  of  opium. 
In  the  morning  Mrs.  Darter  came  out  of  her 
drugged  sleep  with  a  deadly  nausea  that  swathed 
her  muscles  and  laid  her  rigid  in  its  limp,  devil-fish 
clutch.  The  roof  of  her  mouth  was  like  leather;  her 
head  seemed  to  be  pounded  with  hammers ;  she  was 
burning  with  fever,  and  malign  twitchings  and  itch- 
ings  tormented  her  to  rub  her  nose  incessantly,  when 
the  least  motion  was  fearsome  to  her.  She  had  much 
321 


STORIES   THAT   END   WELL 

more  cause  than  ordinary  to  moan,  and  moan  she 
did  at  every  breath.  Jinny  had  rushed  away  to  a 
small  chum  the  moment  the  dishes  for  her  own 
breakfast  had  been  washed ;  but  Emmy  couldn't  run. 
She  drank  a  cup  of  coffee ;  she  had  no  heart  to  eat. 
Jinny,  however  had  eaten  the  dainty  little  meal  that 
Emmy  had  prepared — a  forlorn  hope  to  tempt  the 
invalid. 

"Oh,  my  nose!  my  nose!"  wailed  Mrs.  Darter. 
"Emmy,  you've  got  to  leave  off  staring  out  of  that 
window  at  the  Glenns',  and  come  and  scratch  my 
nose!  Ah-uh!  Ah-u-h!" 

Emmy  silently  sat  down  by  the  bedside.  If  Al- 
bert passed  the  yard  on  his  wheel,  as  he  did  every 
morning  at  half-past  seven,  he  would  not  find  her. 
Emmy  had  used  no  one  knows  how  many  devices  to 
always  be  in  the  yard  when  Albert  passed,  or,  at 
least,  in  sight  by  a  window.  Bert  used  to  say  that 
glimpse  of  Emmy  "was  a  bracer  for  the  whole  day." 
Thursday  night  was  his  night  to  visit  her,  but  last 
night  he  hadn't  come. 

"Emmy,  you  ain't  any  account  at  all  as  a 
scratcher!"  fretted  her  mother.  "You  scratch  where 
it  ain't  itching,  and  you  don't  scratch  where  it  itches, 
322 


A    MIRACLE   PLAY 

and  you're  so  mincing!  Rub  it  hard!  Oh-h!  why 
must  I  suffer  so?  It's  hard  enough  to  have  a  un- 
grateful child  without  having  your  nose  itch!" 

Emmy  adventured  a  sentence  long  lurking  in  her 
mind,  but  which  she  never  had  the  courage  to  push 
out  into  the  air:  "Mother,  I  think,  I'm  sure  it  is 
the  soothing  drops  which  make  your  nose  itch  so. 
There's  opium — " 

"There  isn't  a  grain  of  opium  in  them,"  sobbed 
Mrs.  Darter.  "You  know  I  always  hated  opium  or 
morphine  or  anything  of  the  sort;  and  doctor  told 
me  she  wouldn't  give  the  wicked  drug.  That's  what 
Lida  Glenn  much  as  told  me ;  much  as  told  me,  too, 
that  I  was  putting  on  and  wasn't  real  sick;  and  I 
told  her — oh-h-h! — I  told  her — if  she  considered — 
me — that  sort  of  woman  she  must  feel  awful  bad 
to — oh-h-h! — to  have  her  only  child  marry  my 
daughter ;  and — I — thought —  Oh-h !  wuh-h-h !  how 
awful  sick  I  am !" 

"You  told  Mrs.  Glenn?"  prompted  Emmy,  a  flame 
in  either  cheek. 

"I  told  her  that — sss!  sss! — I  thought  the  sooner 
that  engagement  was  broke  the  better  it  would  be 
for — u-r-r-r! — all  concerned — e-hee!  ee-e!  ee-e-e-e! 
323 


STORIES   THAT   END   WELL 

Oh  my  head !  my  head !  Oh,  I  got  to  scratch  my  nose 
again.  You  ain't  rubbing  the  right  place !" 

"And  what  did  Mrs.  Glenn  say?"  asked  Emmy. 
A  ripple  ran  over  her  face,  and  she  swallowed  before 
she  spoke. 

"She  said  you  wouldn't  give  Albert  up,  real  spite- 
ful. Ah-rr-r!  Oh,  I  am  so  sick!  I  said  you  would 
ruther  than  have  your  mother  so  insulted — and  if 
you  don't  I  guess  I'll  give  up  trying  to  live.  She 
was  so  topping.  Much  as  telling  me  it  would  be 
better  for  my  own  child  if  I  died.  Oh  dear!  oh  dear! 
oh  dear !  And  Albert  looked  as  cross  last  night — " 

"Did  Albert  come  last  night?" 

"Yes,  he  did.  You  needn't  jump  out  of  the  chair! 
I  told  him  you  wasn't  home,  and  you  had  gone  out 
to  the  Collins  spring.  He  said  when  would  you  be 
home,  and  I  said  I  didn't  know.  And  he  went  off 
mad.  Oh-h !  oh-h-h !  Jinny  says  Carrie  March  says 
she  saw  him  down-town  riding  on  his  bicycle  with 
Susan  Baker.  O-h-h-h-h !  How  can  I  talk  when  I'm 
so  sick?  Girls  don't  know  about  young  men.  Bert 
wouldn't  like  you  to  see  him  sometimes,  be  sure  of 
that !"  She  paused  to  moan,  and  Emmy  looked  at 
her  in  a  misery  of  doubt.  Was  she  telling  the  truth? 
324 


A    MIRACLE   PLAY 

It  had  come  to  that,  since  Mrs.  Darter  had  grown 
to  take  her  soothing  drops  in  every  ailment — there 
was  no  surety  that  she  either  saw  things  straight  or 
told  them  straight. 

"I  guess  I'll  go  make  you  some  coffee,  mother," 
said  Emmy ;  "you  need  it." 

The  girl's  self-control  was  like  tinder  to  the  wom- 
an's fire.  Mrs.  Darter  flared  out:  "You  needn't 
make  any  coffee.  I  won't  drink  it.  What's  more,  I 
won't  eat  one  bite  until  you  promise  me  to  break 
with  Bert  Glenn — not  if  I  starve  to  death !  If  you're 
willing  to  let  those  Glenns  insult  me  and  triumph 
over  me,  I  ain't  willing  to  live  to  see  it."  Her  feeble 
accents  shrilled  to  a  scream,  as  she  flung  out  her 
arms  with  a  reminiscence  of  the  behavior  of  her  fa- 
vorite heroines  in  novels.  "Go,  Emmeline  Darter, 
marry  him  if  you  dare ;  but  you  will  pass  to  the  altar 
over  your  only  mother's  grave !"  She  had  a  confused 
sense  that  her  syntax  had  played  her  false  and  that 
she  had  not  gotten  the  words  precisely  right ;  but  she 
covered  any  embarrassment  by  sinking  back  and 
moaning. 

Emmy  looked  at  her  with  a  mounting  terror  in  her 
heart.  She  told  herself  that  it  was  impossibly  -that 
325 


STORIES   THAT    END   WELL 

her  mother  could  carry  out  such  a  hideous  threat ; 
but  she  knew  that  mucilaginous  obstinacy  which  had 
not  a  place  firm  enough  for  a  reason  to  get  a  hold. 
"And  she  won't  want  to  eat,  either,"  mused  Emmy, 
wretchedly,  "for  that  nasty  medicine  has  made  her 
awful  sick.  She's  got  a  fever  now;  that  will  burn 
away  her  strength.  And  if  it  comes  to  a  choice  be- 
tween letting  my  mother  starve  and  giving  up  Bert, 
I  shall  have  to  give  him  up !" 

Emmy  sprang  out  of  her  chair.  The  thought  was 
like  a  lash  on  a  raw  wound. 

She  ran  to  the  window ;  it  seemed  to  her  that  she 
couldn't  breathe ;  and  her  mother's  whimpering  irri- 
tated her  past  patience.  She  knew  if  she  spoke 
that  she  would  let  the  bars  down  for  her  anger,  and 
if  she  were  angry  her  mother  would  be  upset  physic- 
ally, and  grow  so  much  worse  that  she  would  feel 
like  a  murderer.  She  felt  the  goading  of  that  furious 
petulance  which  torments  a  woman  often  into  sacri- 
ficing herself  out  of  very  anger.  It  was  on  her  tongue 
to  say,  "I'd  rather  die  myself  than  give  up  Bert,  and 
you  know  it ;  and  I'll  never  forgive  you  as  long  as  I 
live,  but  rather  than  see  you  die  before  my  eyes  I 
will  give  him  up." 

326 


A    MIRACLE   PLAY 

Neither  to  Emmy  nor  to  her  mother  was  there  a 
doubt  that  any  word  passed  would  be  kept.  Mrs. 
Darter,  in  the  lost  days  of  peace,  before  her  vagaries 
had  corroded  her  affection,  had  said  once,  "Emmy 
never  told  me  a  lie  in  her  life,  nor  she  never  broke 
a  promise  she  made  me!" 

Emmy  shut  her  lips  tight  and  looked  out  of  the 
window.  Her  troubled  gaze  did  not  note  the  dewy 
freshness  of  the  morning  on  turf  and  tree.  The 
houses  were  brown  cottages  for  the  most  part,  built 
in  the  lean  period  of  western  rural  architecture  when 
a  stunted  cruciform  effect  and  a  bescrolled  piazza 
was  the  model  for  every  village.  But  the  ugly  lines 
of  wood  were  veiled  by  a  kindly  wealth  of  wistarias 
and  clematis  royally  flaunting,  by  Virginia-creeper 
and  trumpet-vines  splashed  with  vermilion  and  yel- 
low ;  the  grass  was  velvet,  there  was  a  gay  company 
of  geraniums  prospering  in  every  garden ;  and  below 
the  hills  and  the  tree-tops  lay  the  lovely,  dimpled 
hill-sides,  golden  with  wheat  or  shorn  to  a  varnished 
silver  like  nothing  so  much  as  the  hue  of  shining 
flax,  and  the  waving  fields  of  corn — all  under  a 
vault  of  burning  blue,  delicate,  tender,  innocent,  with 
no  sumptuous  and  threatening  richness  of  cloud  be- 
327 


STORIES   THAT   END   WELL 

tokening  storm,  only  high  in  the  heavens  the  milky 
white  cumuli,  the  "harvest  clouds." 

There  were  a  thousand  witcheries  of  light  and 
shade,  there  was  a  radiant  lavishness  of  color;  it 
was  a  landscape  like  a  multitude  all  over  the  Middle 
West,  nevertheless  a  sight  to  make  the  heart  beat  the 
quicker  for  sheer  delight.  But  it  might  have  been 
a  stone  wall  for  anything  poor  Emmy,  who  loved 
each  growing  thing,  saw  in  it  this  moment.  To  live 
without  Bert,  perhaps  to  learn  that  Susy  Baker  had 
the  love  which  she  would  seem  to  have  flung  away — 
Emmy  would  have  groaned  if  she  had  not  heard 
Mrs.  Darter's  piteous  din,  and  thought  grimly  that 
her  mother  did  enough  groaning  for  their  small 
family ! 

Yet  at  this  very  instant  of  despair  a  minister  of 
grace  was  lifting  the  latch  of  the  Darter  gate,  and 
Emmy  was  unconsciously  eying  her.  The  minister 
of  grace  was  short  of  stature  and  very  plump.  She 
had  a  round,  fair,  freckled  face,  which  looked  the 
rounder  for  its  glittering  spectacles.  Her  hair  was  a 
yellowish  gray,  but  she  covered  it  with  a  small  white 
sailor  hat.  She  wore  a  neat  brown  and  white  calico 
frock.  To  escape  the  dew  she  held  her  skirts  high ; 
328 


A    MIRACLE   PLAY 

one  could  see  that  her  preference  was  for  black  al- 
paca slippers  and  white  cotton  stockings.  The  min- 
ister's name  was  Miss  Ann  Bigelow. 

"Now  she  comes  to  stir  mother  up  worse!" 
thought  Emmy.  So  blind  are  we  to  the  future.  But 
she  opened  the  door  for  Miss  Ann  Bigelow,  and  bade 
her  welcome,  and  proffered  her  the  best  rocking- 
chair  in  the  parlor  and  a  palm-leaf  fan. 

Miss  Bigelow's  countenance  was  beaming  like  an 
electric  light. 

"I  really  had  to  come !"  she  exclaimed  so  soon  as 
she  could  take  breath.  "Have  you  heard  about  Mrs. 
Conner  spraining  her  ankle?" 

"Emmy,  open  the  door!"  moaned  Mrs.  Darter 
from  within — her  bed-room  adjoined  the  parlor. 
Emmy  opened  the  door,  while  she  said:  "I'm  so 
sorry.  When?  How  is  she?" 

"Oh,  she's  all  right  now !"  said  Miss  Bigelow.  "It's 
wonderful — a  real  miracle,  I  told  sister.  That's  what 
I  came  to  tell  you.  She  sent  over  for  us,  and  there 
she  lay,  flat  on  the  kitchen  floor.  I  begun  to  treat 
her  in  my  mind  the  minute  I  saw  her,  for  I  saw 
she  was  in  error.  All  her  word  was :  'Send  for  a  doc- 
tor; it's  sprained,  if  it  ain't  broke!'  I  didn't  know 
329 


STORIES   THAT   END   WELL 

what  to  do.  I  didn't  want  to  encourage  her  in 
error,  and  yet  you  know  we  are  not  advanced 
so  far  as  sprains  and  broken  bones,  and  it  is  usual 
to  summon  a  doctor;  and  I  don't  feel  I'm  ad- 
vanced enough  myself  to i undertake  serious  cases; 
I'm  too  weak  and  timid,  and  I  haven't  the  spiritual 
vision.  Emmy,  does  your  mother  always  groan  that 
loud  way  ?  1st  she  in  pain  ?  I  mean,  does  she  think 
she  is  in  pain  ?" 

"Yes'm,"  said  Emmy;  "but  please  go  on;  mother 
is  listening." 

"Well,  I  stood  there  dazed,  you  may  say;  and  just 
then  in  came  Miss  Keith.  She's  a  little  slim  thing, 
but  such  eyes !  They  seem  to  look  you  through  and 
through!  I'd  have  known  she  was  a  healer  even  if 
Mrs.  Conner  hadn't  told  me  the  night  before  when 
she  was  over  in  our  house.  She  stood  there,  just 
simply  looking  at  Mrs.  Conner,  not  saying  a  word 
for  a  minnit.  Then  she  says  in  the  kindest  voice — I 
can't  tell  you  how  soft  and  kind  her  voice  was ! — 
she  says,  'Have  you  the  impression  of  great  pain, 
Mrs.  Conner?'  And  Mrs.  Conner — you  know  how 
— well  abruptly — she  speaks,  she  said :  'Impression 
of  pain?  I  only  wish  you  had  something  jabbing 
330 


A    MIRACLE   PLAY 

you  like  a  hot  iron,  I  guess  you'd  be  impressed. 
Ain't  anybody  going  to  take  off  my  stocking?  It's 
swelling  every  minnit!'  Miss  Keith  only  looked  at 
her,  and  lifted  her  hand  for  me  and  the  girl  to  keep 
still.  I  expect  she  was  giving  her  silent  treatment, 
for  in  a  moment  or  two  she  said :  'Well  ?'  in  such 
an  inspiring,  cheerful  tone;  and  Mrs.  Conner  said, 
'Why,  it's  better!'  surprised  as  could  be;  and  I  had 
to  clap  my  hands  for  joy.  But  Miss  Keith  told  us 
both  to  go  out  for  a  while  and  so  we  did.  We  waited 
half  an  hour  by  the  clock,  and  that  girl  was  the  most 
restless  being  you  ever  saw.  I  had  all  I  could  to 
keep  her  quiet.  Then  the  door  opened — "  Miss 
Bigelow  made  a  wave  of  her  plump  hands,  indicating 
the  opening  of  a  door,  and  paused  with  hands  and 
voice.  Mrs.  Darter  had  ceased  to  groan. 

"What  happened?"  said  Emmy. 

Miss  Bigelow's  hands  met  in  a  clap.  "Mrs.  Con- 
ner came  walking  out  with  Miss  Keith,  that's  what 
happened!"  said  she,  in  a  low,  solemn  voice. 

"On  her  sprained  ankle?"  cried  Mrs.  Darter. 

"On  her  sprained  ankle,  her  that  couldn't  move  it 
without  nearly  fainting  for  the  pain.  She  said  it 
hardly  pained  her  at  all;  and  she's  going  right  on 
331 


STORIES   THAT    END   WELL 

with  her  preserving  this  minute.     I  said  to  sister  it 
was  simply  mirac'lus.  I  can't  find  a  better  word." 

"Maybe  her  ankle  was  not  sprained  so  badly  as 
she  thought,"  Emmy  suggested. 

"Her  face  was  white  as  a  sheet,"  said  Miss  Bige- 
low ;  "and  we  all  know  Mrs.  Conner  isn't  one  to  cry 
before  she's  hurt,  or  make  a  fuss;  and  we  all  know 
her  prejudices  about  mental  healing.  She  says  she 
don't  believe  a  bit  more  in  it  than  she  did,  'but,'  says 
she,  'that  girl's  a  wonder!  I  wish,'  says  she,  'Mrs. 
Darter  could  have  her.'  I  never  lisped,  but  I  made 
up  my  mind  to  go  and  tell  you  right  straight." 

"She  couldn't  do  mother  any  good,"  said  Emmy, 
wearily.  At  which  Mrs.  Darter  spoke  for  herself  in 
a  good,  round  voice  of  contradiction.  "Why  couldn't 
she  ?  How  much  does  she  charge,  Miss  Ann  ?" 

"Not  one  cent!"  replied  Ann,  with  a  thrill  of  tri- 
umph ;  "if  she'll  come,  she'll  come  free ;  but  I  don't 
know  whether  she  will  come." 

"Emmy,  you  go  and  ask  Mrs.  Conner  to  ask  her  to 
come;  ask  Mrs.  Conner  to  come  too,"  said  Mrs. 
Darter,  resuming  her  feeble  voice.  "I  want  to  see 
if  that  ankle  is  cured.  You'll  stay  with  me,  Miss 
Ann?" 

332 


A   MIRACLE   PLAY 

So,  almost  too  quickly  for  her  to  realize  the  posi- 
tion, Emmy  found  herself  on  her  way  to  the 
Conners'.  A  fragrant  odor  wafted  Mrs.  Conner's  oc- 
cupation through  the  open  kitchen  door  before 
Emmy  crossed  the  threshold  to  behold  her  skimming 
a  great  kettle  of  plum  jam.  "Landy,  land !  it's  Emmy 
Darter  already!"  she  cried,  with  a  jolly  laugh.  "I 
thought  I  could  git  that  plum  jam  ready  to  take  off 
before  you'd  come.  I  knew  it  wouldn't  be  long  when 
I  saw  Miss  Ann  Bigelow  trotting  across  lots.  Your 
ma's  sent  for  Miss  Keith,  I  guess.  Well,  it's  lucky 
Conner  has  the  hosses  hitched  in  the  wagon,  and  he 
can  take  us  right  over.  I'll  call  Hedwig  to  take  off 
the  jam,  and  Miss  Keith — " 

"But,  Mrs.  Conner,  please  tell  me  about  yourself," 
urged  Emmy.  "Did  she  cure  you  ?" 

Mrs.  Conner's  left  eyelid  twitched  in  company 
with  the  left  corner  of  her  shapely  mouth.  "You 
ask  me  no  questions,  Emmy,  and  I'll  tell  you  no  lies ; 
but  you  can  make  up  your  mind  Miss  Keith  can  cure 
your  ma — if  she's  let!"  These  orphic  sentences  were 
dropped  with  a  slow  and  ponderous  nod  of  the  head, 
and  ceased  at  the  entrance  of  Miss  Keith.  The  young 
lady  looked  very  pretty  in  a  crisp  pink  and  white 
333 


STORIES   THAT    END   .WELL 

dimity  frock  and  a  large  white  hat  with  pink  roses. 
She  had  none  of  the  airs  of  an  adept  or  a  seer.  There 
was  nothing  occult  or  intruding  on  the  imagination 
in  her  presence.  She  sat  on  the  front  seat  beside 
Mr.  Conner  and  talked  about  cantaloupe  melons. 
Mrs.  Conner  was  amazingly  silent;  it  was  plain, 
however,  from  no  unkindly  motives,  since  often  she 
cast  an  affectionate  glance  on  Emmy,  and,  as  the 
wagon  stopped  in  front  of  the  Darter  gate,  she  pat- 
ted the  girl's  shoulder,  saying:  "It's  all  going  to 
come  right,  I  guess.  Jest  you  mind  us  and  keep  still." 

Emmy's  bewilderment  deepened,  but  she  said, 
"Yes'm,"  in  her  docile  way,  and  followed  Mrs.  Con- 
ner and  Miss  Keith  down  the  walk,  leaving  Mr.  Con- 
ner to  chuckle  over  some  unknown  mirth  of  his 
own,  in  the  wagon. 

Mrs.  Darter,  so  Miss  Bigelow  told  them,  had  been 
dozing  all  the  while  Emmy  was  gone.  Her  greeting 
to  Miss  Keith  was  a  feeble  moan.  But  on  Miss 
Keith's  part  there  wras  an  amazing  transformation. 
She  bent  her  brows  above  eyes  which  shone  out  of 
them  in  a  level,  intent  gaze.  Emmy  recalled  Miss 
Ann's  description,  and  understood  it  with  a  thrill. 
For  a  few  seconds  Miss  Keith  stood  motionless, 
334 


A    MIRACLE   PLAY 

shedding  that  steady,  unblinking  gaze  at  the  drawn 
face  on  the  pillow.  Mrs.  Darter  appeared  to  feel  it 
through  her  eyelids ;  she  winced,  she  ceased  whim- 
pering. Miss  Keith  smiled  gently.  She  spoke,  and 
her  voice  was  like  silk.  "You  have  suffered  very 
much !" 

Mrs.  Darter  opened  her  eyes ;  she  gazed  up  at  the 
eyes  above  her;  her  chin  quivered  and  two  tears 
slowly  ran  down  her  cheeks — the  first  tears  seen  on 
her  cheeks  during  all  her  lamentations.  "Oh,  I  have," 
she  murmured,  "and  nobody  believes  it — not  my 
oldest  friend,  not  my  own  children !" 

'7  believe  it,"  said  the  girl ;  "yet  it  is  all  a  mis- 
take." Without  turning  her  eyes,  she  made  a  little 
motion  with  her  hands  toward  the  door,  and  in- 
stantly Miss  Ann  marshaled  the  others  out  of  the 
room.  Mrs.  Conner  shut  the  door. 

In  spite  of  herself,  Emmy  began  to  feel  her  nerves 
twitch  with  the  excitement  and  mystery.  "Oh,  Mrs. 
Conner,"  she  entreated  that  stanch  friend,  "is  it  pos- 
sible she  can  cure  mother?" 

"Jest  you  keep  quiet,"  said  Mrs.  Conner,  "and 
set  still.  I'm  going  out  to  the  kitchen  to  heat  this 
beef  tea."  For  the  first  time,  Emmy  observed  that 
335 


STORIES   THAT   END   WELL 

Mrs.    Conner    carried    a    glass    jar    insufficiently 
wrapped  in  newspaper.  Directly  she  was  heard  clat- 
tering among  the  saucepans.    Miss  Ann  stiffened 
into  a  rigid  attitude,  and  her  face  assumed  a  rapt 
expression.    Emmy  locked  her  fingers  and  sat  still. 
At  this  moment  she  was  startled  by  a  soft  noise  out- 
side, and  a  young  fellow  pushed  a  handsome,  flushed 
face  into  the  triangle  between  the  window  curtains 
and  beckoned  with  a  look  of  entreaty.  Emmy's  heart 
jumped  into  her  throat.    It  was  Albert.    She  didn't 
care  whether  he  rode  with  Susan  Baker  or  not;  it 
was  Albert  who  loved  her ;  she  knew  it.  If  she  could 
only  go  out  to  him !   But  Miss  Ann  shook  her  head 
and  laid  a  mystic  finger  on  her  lips.  Emmy,  too,  laid 
a  finger  on  her  lips ;  but  her  finger  trembled  and  her 
eyes  swam  in  tears.    Albert  stood  passive  and  be- 
wildered.   The  moments  dragged  on.    Really  there 
were  not  so  many  of  them ;  a  scant  half  an  hour  cov- 
ered the  flight  of  time;  but  to  Emmy,  uncertain 
whether  her  greatly  tried  lover  might  not  have  to 
go  back  to  an  expected  train  at  any  one  of  them,  and 
to  Albert,  who  did  have  a  train  on  his  mind  and  had 
ridden  swiftly  up  to  his  sweetheart's  for  the  briefest 
of  interviews,  those  minutes  seemed  an  hour.   Yet 
336 


A   MIRACLE   PLAY 

Albert  knew  better,  having  his  watch  in  hand  and 
waving  it  and  pointing  at  it,  the  better  to  explain  his 
hurry.  Once  Emmy  mustered  courage  in  an  access 
of  desperation  to  rise  to  her  feet,  but  the  look  of 
horror  on  Miss  Ann's  features  dropped  her  like  a 
club. 

Albert's  mind  darted  blindly  from  one  conjecture 
of  disaster  to  another.  At  one  minute  he  was  ready 
to  march  in  rashly  before  Miss  Ann  and  demand 
what  was  the  matter ;  at  another  he  was  cold  at  the 
thought  of  blundering  in  on  a  death-bed. 

He  gasped  with  relief  when  the  door  opened  and 
Miss  Keith  came  out,  smiling  and  calling:  "Mrs. 
Conner !  Mrs.  Conner !  hurry  up  that  beef  tea,  and 
make  some  strong  coffee  as  soon  as  you  can !" 

Then  he  did  venture  to  come  into  the  room,  essay- 
ing a  general  bow  and  smile. 

"I  hope  Aunty  Darter  is  better!"  he  stammered. 
The  children  of  the  old  friends  had  always  given 
them  a  brevet  relationship.  Mrs.  Darter  was  "Aunty 
Darter"  to  Albert,  and  Mrs.  Glenn  "Aunty  Lida"  to 
the  Darter  girls. 

"Mrs.  Darter  will  be  well  to-morrow,"  said  Miss 
Keith,  quietly ;  "she  is  going  to  take  some  coffee — " 
337 


STORIES   THAT   END   WELL 

"And  some  toast  and  plum  jam,"  interrupted  Mrs. 
Darter  herself.  "I  know  Mrs.  Conner  has  been  mak- 
ing jam.  The  times  I've  hankered  after  jam  these 
last  months!  I'm  going  to  eat  everything  I  didn't 
dast  to — " 

"By  degrees,"  said  Miss  Keith,  "as  the  mental 
power  grows  stronger." 

"Is  that  Albert?"  said  Mrs.  Darter.  "Albert,  lift 
me  up  while  I  drink  that  beef  tea." 

Albert  and  Emmy  held  her  while  Mrs.  Conner  fed 
her  a  cup  of  the  tea.  They  laughed  hysterically,  with 
tears  in  their  eyes,  as  Mrs.  Darter  sighed  weakly. 
"Oh,  but  that's  good !"  while  Mrs.  Conner  radiated 
satisfaction  and  Miss  Ann  rocked  to  and  fro,  an- 
nouncing that  it  was  "mirac'lus!"  They  did  not 
comprehend  what  had  happened ;  they  could  not  look 
into  the  future  and  a  time  when  Mrs.  Darter  should 
throw  herself  with  energy  into  preparing  for  Em- 
my's marriage ;  they  only  dimly  foresaw  her  recov- 
ery and  reconciliation  with  the  common  pleasures  of 
life;  but  it  was  enough  for  Emmy  that  her  mother's 
black  hour  had  passed,  and  for  Albert  that  he  was 
close  to  Emmy,  and  that  there  was  a  vague  omen 
of  happiness  in  the  atmosphere. 
338 


A    MIRACLE    PLAY 

Mrs.  Darter  took  her  tea.  She  went  to  sleep,  as 
Miss  Keith  directed  her ;  and  she  partook  with  relish 
of  coffee,  toast,  and  jam  that  selfsame  day,  so  rap- 
idly had  her  state  improved  by  evening.  It  was 
after  this  last  meal,  she  being  vastly  strengthened  by 
the  food  and  drink,  that  she  received  Albert's  mes- 
sages from  his  mother — rather,  that  she  cut  them 
short. 

"No,  Albert,  your  ma  shan't  keep  on  feeling  bad. 
She  was  right.  It  was  all  in  my  mind.  All  disease 
is  in  the  mind,  I  guess.  But  I  wasn't  putting  it  on — " 

"Oh,  she  knows;  she  didn't  mean — " 

"We  didn't,  either  of  us,  mean  all  we  said;  the 
truth  is,  I  felt  so  bad  and  so  hungry  I  couldn't  see 
straight,  anyway;  and  as  to  Dr.  Abbie  Cruller,  I 
guess  your  mother  wasn't  far  out  She  said  I  never 
had  had  a  well  day  since  I  knew  that  woman,  and  I 
do  believe  that's  so;  but  I've  got  a  wonderful  new 
doctor  now ;  don't  charge  a  cent ;  and  you  tell  your 
mother  to  come  over  and  see  me  and  stay  to  tea.  My 
hand's  out  making  blueberry  cake,  but  I'm  going 
to  try." 

But  this  interview  was  hours  after  Doris  Keith 
and  the  Conners  had  driven  away.    Mrs.  Conner 
339 


STORIES   THAT   END   WELL 

gave  her  husband  a  graphic  account  of  the  "miracle." 
"Ann  Bigelow  will  have  it's  no  less,"  says  she. 

"Thing  pleased  me,"  chuckles  Conner,  wrinkling 
his  eyes  out  of  sight  in  his  ironic  enjoyment — "thing 
pleased  me  was  the  way  she'd  go  on  'bout  Miss 
Keith's  eyes  piercing  her  right  through,  after  Miss 
Keith  had  practysed  them  eyes  on  you  V  me  all  the 
evening,  jest  from  my  description  of  that  Indian 
doctor.  Well,  she  done  it  well ;  but  I  wish  I  could 
have  seen  it !" 

"Will  Mrs.  Darter  keep  right  on  and  not  back- 
slide, think?"  said  Mrs.  Conner. 

"I  think  she  will,"  said  Doris;  "I  hope  she  will. 
And  there's  one  thing:  after  I'm  gone  (I  shall  have 
to  run  away  from  my  reputation)  you  must  own  up 
about  your  ankle — and  me  to  Miss  Darter  and  poor, 
trusting  Miss  Bigelow.  She's  such  a  good  soul! 
Mrs.  Darter — well,  you  will  know  when  it's  safe  to 
tell  Mrs.  Darter." 

"Humph!"  said  Conner,  "Emmy'll  be  grateful !  I 
guess  we'll  go  slow  on  the  Widow  Darter;  and  as 
to  Ann  Bigelow — " 

"I  do  feel  sneaky  about  her,"  sighed  Doris.  "It's 
340 


A   MIRACLE   PLAY 

touching,  her  faith.  She's  a  simple-hearted  creature. 
I  hate  to  uproot  her." 

"Oh,  you  needn't  be  afraid,"  said  Conner,  grin- 
ning ;  "she  won't  be  uprooted.  She  will  say  it's  jest 
as  much  mental  healing  as  if  you  done  it  in  earnest. 
And  ain't  Mrs.  Darter  healed?  she'll  say." 

"Well,"  Doris  mused  aloud,  "I  dare  say  she's 
right.  It  certainly  was  a  mental  healing,  and  how  far 
the  power  of  the  mind  to  heal  goes  none  of  us  can 
say.  Perhaps,  after  all,  she  is  right,  and  it  is  a  bit 
of  a  miracle,  although  it  was  only  a  miracle  play !" 


THE  END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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